


Fighting My Way Back

by BabysNotaProp (SuzetteB)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cute Jack Kline, Dean Winchester Whump, Death, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Non-Human Impala (Supernatural), Oral Sex, Post Season 13, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Switching, Sword of Michael, Team Free Will 2.0, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester, first destiel fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-08 08:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzetteB/pseuds/BabysNotaProp
Summary: Sam, Cas, and Mary are trying and failing to pull Dean out of the stronghold under which Michael has put him.Cas is keeping an eye on Nick, Lucifer's vessel, who is being kept in a comatose state caused by nephilim grace, as opposed to the vegetative state Raphael's vessel had befallen. Is it possible for Dean to fully recover after being possessed by Michael? Cas has so much he needs to tell Dean, but isn't even sure he will listen... much less, reciprocate.Jack is exploring his potential while slowly recovering his power. He has the ability to create, but until his grace is at full strength, his creation must be made out of something already existing. Our favorite nephilim has a plan to use his newfound power to snap Dean out of Michael's control, but what will become of Dean after the ejection? And can Team Free Will 2.0 stop Michael before he destroys the world?





	1. Feeling Stronger Every Day

**Author's Note:**

> The setting for this story is post-season 13. The rating is Explicit because there will be smut, eventually... It's going to be a pretty slow burn, though. My goal is at least 20 chapters and around 100k words, which will be my longest fanfic (and FIRST Destiel story) to date! Let me know what you think in a comment. 
> 
> <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: deans-jiggly-pudding

I'm tough, rough, ready and able

To pick myself up from under this table

Don't stick no sign on me, I got no label

I'm a little sick, unsure, unsound and unstable

But I'm fighting my way back

-Thin Lizzy (Listen to [Fighting My Way Back](https://youtu.be/BJ2En_1IfhI))

 

It was Dean’s body. But the far offish stare was too cold, the laugh too dark, and the strides far too methodical. It was Dean’s face, but the man looking back at Cas wasn’t him. The usual glint in his eyes when he said the angel’s name was gone, not to mention the out of place head tilt Michael gave when Cas looked up at him with begging eyes. 

 

Michael must think Castiel will never learn. He’s right. 

 

“Dean, please hear me,” Cas graveled once more, his voice cracking under the hoarseness of screaming in agony for so long. Blood coated his throat and mouth, he was ebbing in and out of consciousness, and he could feel his grace vibrating at a painfully slow rate, trying and failing to keep up with healing his wounds.

 

“For the last time, Castiel,” Michael drawled, the angel’s name rolling off his tongue in a cruel way Dean had never made it sound. It was emotionless and detached. It was all wrong. Everything about this was wrong. “My vessel cannot hear you. I’ve put him deep into a dream state, where he’ll be nice and quiet.” Smirking, the archangel flung Cas against the warehouse wall with a flick of his wrist. “I did some exploring in his mind and I discovered his happy ending. That’s what he called it, didn’t he? The beach. The sand. You and his brother.”

 

Cas struggled to his knees and glared bitterly at the monster before him. Dean truly was lost. Michael had him under his thumb, and there he would remain until something could break through in just the right way. Cas spat blood onto the floor and finished picking himself up.

 

“What plans could you possibly have that are so classified that Dean could have no part in them?”

 

“Oh, you little ant,” Michael chuckled ominously, “I believe that’s -- as the humans call it -- above your ‘pay grade.’” With that, the archangel spread his glistening caramel and cinnamon colored wings and soared away. 

 

After taking a moment to catch his breath, the bloodied angel dialed for Sam. The phone only rang once.

 

“Cas!” Sam gasped. “You alright, man?”

 

“The results of my attempt are the same as last time,” Cas sighed, “but this time he said he put Dean in a dream. He has plans of which he wants Dean to remain ignorant.”

 

Sam paused before replying, an old memory washing over him. “I know exactly what he means by that. When I was… when Lucifer…” He stumbled over his words but cleared his throat and continued. “While I was fighting Dean in that cemetery, I don’t remember any of that. I was in some sort of weird dream-like state. In my mind, I was at a concert with my brother, and next thing I know, I see this glare, and everything sort of glitches.” Sam waited a beat, but Cas was quietly taking it all in, so he continued. “Almost like I could see what was really happening layered underneath the dream. And then I got all these flashbacks of Dean and I growing up, and then I remembered being possessed and I realized that I had to take control.”

 

“Your memories brought you back,” Cas concluded, dragging himself out of the abandoned warehouse and towards the town hospital.

 

“Yeah but it wasn’t that simple. Dean already tried taking back control in that church and it’s like riding a bike uphill for like, three miles. At first you’ve got a little bit of momentum, but that quickly runs out and everything around you starts working against you. Those memories were the push I needed to get back in control. It might work for him, too.”

 

Cas contemplated it hopefully, not knowing first-hand what this was like, even though he had been possessed by Lucifer. There had been no real power struggle, not on the level Sam was describing, and Amara had ripped his unwanted guest from his body. On a cosmically larger scale, it was a bit like having a bandaid viciously ripped off, as opposed to slowly peeled off; both were painful in their own right, but one had most of the pain concentrated in the blink of an eye, while the other spaced the pain out for a long time. Also, most vessels didn’t have an omnipotent being at their disposal, so the long method was the only method.

 

“I believe that we will eventually get through to him,” Cas assured him, pausing outside the hospital doors. “We just need to find something strong enough to break through the wall Michael has built in his mind. I’m visiting Nick on the way home.”

 

“Okay Cas, see ya.” Sam hung up and turned to Jack, who was sitting studiously at the library table with a handful of dirt.

 

“When is Father coming home?” Jack inquired, thumbing the dark soil absentmindedly.

 

Sam set the phone on the table and smiled. “He’ll be home soon, Jack. He’s just running an errand. Let’s see what you can do with that dirt!”

 

Unbothered by the change of subject, the slowly healing nephilim poured the dirt onto the table and began concentrating heavily on his subject. His brows furrowed as he drew out his design in his mind, then turned it about to give it dimensions. Visualizing the dirt transform into the specific shape he had in mind, he replaced the gritty brown with smooth green, stemming toward the heavens with white fingers reaching for sunlight and stringy roots burrowing into the table. Jack knew Sam was going to give him a hard time for choosing a product so close to the host, but he needed to squeeze in one more easy one before trying something more difficult.

 

Coming out of his trance, Jack blinked and inspected the product of his mind proudly standing where dirt had been. The flower was like nothing humans had seen before: long, thin petals with a blood red stigma, supported by a fat, green stem and fuzzy leaves. Quite proud of his latest creation, he smiled and looked over at Sam for validation.

 

“Wow,” Sam gaped, “that’s really good, Jack. This is beautiful.” For a nephilim who had been drained of most of his grace, Jack was coming along better than expected. Reserving his powers for exercises like this, he had accustomed himself to hunting monsters the human way: silver to the heart for werewolves, beheading vampires, and the such like. Creating something out of nothing was the most powerful thing he could ever do, but since his grace was too depleted for that, he was working up to it by creating things from a “host”, that is, matter to be turned into another substance. Dirt into a flower was a bit tricky to get down at first, but now he was ready to attempt the feat with non-organic material.

 

“I want to try using something around the bunker for my next one,” Jack initiated.

 

“Okay,” Sam agreed, excited that Jack was taking the exercises seriously. “Let’s go find something.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cas stood by the bed in the ICU, surrounded by monitors beeping, nurses discoursing nearby, and dead white walls that rivaled that of Heaven’s. It was strange to see Lucifer’s vessel without the archangel inside, but the state of the body gave Cas a glimmer of hope. In his final moments before his showdown with Michael, Lucifer had gulped down a heaping helping of nephilim grace, and it was solely because of this loophole that Nick was still alive, albeit in a coma. Hooked up to fluids and breathing steadily, Nick laid perfectly tranquil, interrupted only by nurses occasionally turning his body to prevent bedsores.

 

He never spoke to the former vessel on his visits; what would he say? I’m here to see if the nephilim grace has kept you alive one more day! The only other instance we know of an archangel leaving his human vessel was Raphael and he left him in a worse state than yours, so you’re the guinea pig on what happens when a vessel had nephilim grace surging through his veins! I’m waiting for you to wake up to prove to Sam that nephilim grace can completely heal human vessels!

 

None of these explanations were good enough. Nick could probably see and hear him in his astral body, if he was well enough as Cas was hoping. He didn’t want to dampen his desire to awaken with the knowledge that he was basically a plot device to get Dean back. Cas felt a pang in his stomach as he turned to leave, imagining Nick waiting for a kind word from his mysterious visitor but getting none.

 

Facing the patient once again, Cas shuffled awkwardly and muttered, “Hello, Nick. I know I haven’t been overly friendly on my visits. My apologies. Social graces never were my strong suit. I hope you are...well. I hope you wake up soon. Goodbye.” He leaned forward a tad, as if to give a slight bow, and exited the Intensive Care Unit. Saying something made him feel better, even if it were a poorly executed greeting. Perhaps Nick wouldn’t hold it against him. Perhaps Nick would understand.

 

By the time Cas returned to the bunker, the air was noticeably lighter and he could hear laughter from the moment he walked in the door. Compartmentalizing the hospital visit, he pulled himself back into the present and reminded himself that this was why they were getting Dean back. Their family unit was incomplete without him. There were meals to be shared and laughter to be had, and Dean was missing it. The world kept spinning because Dean saved it, and now it was time to bring him back so he could enjoy it again. Jack was becoming stronger every day, and he needed his dad. Sam tirelessly researched everything there was to know about Michael the archangel because it was time to bring Dean home; he needed his brother.

 

“Father, look what I made out of Sam’s drone!” Jack exclaimed, giggles littering his words as he ran up the stairs. In his hands he held a tiny dragon, no larger than a kitten. Its scales shone with iridescent blues and greens, and it spit a huff of gray smoke at Cas. 

 

“Your creation is magnificent, Jack,” Cas commented with a tired smile. 

 

Pleased, Jack hopped down the stairs and joined Sam again in the library, where they continued to chatter excitedly about the dragon. Wandering down the stairs and into the Dean Cave, Cas imagined Dean’s reaction to the newest creation. He imagined Dean pretending to be wary, but later hiding the beautiful beast in his pocket and taking it with him on hunts. He pictured Dean’s smile, the way he threw his bottle caps into the trash can, the exact way he squeezed Cas’ shoulder when something was wrong, and all the ways Cas needed him. A heavy feeling set in his gut as he thought of how quickly Dean would brush him off as soon as he’d start talking about needs and feelings, but oh how he needed Dean to know. He had gone ten years without really telling him and he needed to know.

 

His thoughts interrupted by his cell phone ringing, Cas snapped himself out of the haze. “Hello?” he greeted without checking the caller ID first, settling himself on Dean’s couch.

 

“Cas,” Mary answered urgently, “I just found Dea-- Michael again. How did your meeting with him go?”

 

“Not well,” Cas replied flatly, trying to keep his voice from giving away just how afraid he had become under the hand of an unforgiving archangel.

 

“Same here,” Mary sighed. “I think I saw him right after you did, and I got thrown around quite a bit.” Huffing a humorless laugh, she lifted a ice pack to her head and recalled the blank stare of a pair of eyes through which a being which wasn’t her son was looking.

 

“Are you alright? I can come heal you. I healed myself on my way back to the bunker so as not to worry Jack.”

 

“No, it’s not that bad,” Mary assured. “I’ll be fine. I called to see if you have any more information that could help us get to Dean.”

 

Cas thought for a moment, wondering if Mary had already tried what he was about to say. “According to Sam, a brief moment of clarity could cut through the hold just long enough for Dean to get a grip on his body. This has to be brought about by someone that has known him for a long time, longer than me.” He swallowed, waiting for Mary’s response.

 

“Well, I was just there,” Mary began slowly, “and I got nothing. I tried calling out to him, telling him about his first birthday…” Her voice cracked as she trailed off. “I even tried singing to him, Cas. He’s too far gone for even me to reach him.” She covered a quivering breath as she said out loud what she had been dreading to think about ever since she left the scene. Dean had known her longer than Cas and Sam, and if she couldn’t cut through the mind hold, no one could. The usually optimistic Mary Winchester was at the end of her rope, and although she dared not voice her concerns for fear of passing on her hopelessness, both of them could read between the lines.

 

Cas made an attempt at consoling her. “It was only one time. We will try again later. For now, come back home and we will regroup and discuss our next move.”

 

“Oh I couldn’t possibly come home just yet,” Mary’s voice lifted at the chance to change the subject. “I promised Bobby I’d help him and his people melt down angel blades for bullets.”

 

“Very well,” Cas sighed, knowing any effort to deter her would be met with pushback. “Thank you again, Mary, for trying. Keep me updated with Michael’s whereabouts.”

 

“Will do. Bye, Cas.”

 

Exiting the room Dean had designed, Cas made his way to the library to inform his small garrison of the latest developments on the frontline. He found Jack and Sam nose deep in archangel lore, looking over their books in anticipation of what news Cas might bring. The approaching angel pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose, not wanting to give false hope.

 

“That bad, huh?” Sam offered, reading his body language.

 

“Neither mine nor Mary’s attempts were fruitful,” Cas replied. “Perhaps we should try going together. Michael reacts violently but hasn’t indicated that he wants any of us dead. Perhaps having multiple memory triggers present will help.”

 

“The thing is, Cas,” Sam winced, “why doesn’t he want any of us dead? He’s got something planned. The question is, what?”

 

“I don’t know,” Cas muttered as he shook his head. “Not even his mother was enough to cut through the dream state. She’s known him longer than anyone else in the world, but not even her lullaby and stories of his childhood made any headway.”

 

“If anyone could made some sort of psychic connection to cut through Michael’s hold, it would’ve been her,” Sam sighed, face in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, stopping it behind his ears. “What other options do we have?”

 

Cas didn’t reply, not wanting to discourage the family with an I-don’t-know. “Jack,” he opted instead, “could you give me and Sam a minute?”

 

Confused but content to give the two some space to discuss the matter further, he nodded, scooped up his tiny dragon, and headed to the garage.

 

After he was sure Jack could no longer hear, he addressed his “errand” from earlier. “Nick is still in a coma. I don’t like the idea of getting Dean to eject Michael until we know exactly what will happen to him and Nick is our only lead.”

 

“I know,” Sam spoke quieter than usual. “But if the opportunity presents itself, we have to take it. We might not get another chance. Besides, Michael has been dropping bodies all over the country. If Dean knew we were holding out on him while Michael’s slaughtering innocent people, he’d be livid.” He shook his head, the complexity of the situation building up with every word. “I’m more concerned about my brother than a bunch of random strangers. I also know what happens to vessels after they eject an archangel. The quality of life is gone. But Cas, if we can get nephilim grace into him before he kicks Michael out, we at least know he’ll be in a comatose state, which is a medical condition most people recover from!”

 

Everything Sam said made sense. He began to understand why he had been so interested in law, once upon a time. He hated that Sam was so right. According to the limited data they had, no nephilim grace at time of ejection meant a permanent vegetative state, but the presence of nephilim grace meant a coma. It was a ray of hope amidst a very wide sea of horrible circumstances.

 

“Besides,” he continued, “Nick has been in this coma for months. Anything that happens to Dean will happen to Nick far in advance. If anything changes, we’ll be able to plan for it. It’s pretty messed up to think of him as our lab rat, but it’s kind of true.” His voice was sympathetic but resolute. “Nick has survived this long after being possessed by Lucifer, so if anyone can pull through after being possessed by Michael, it’s my brother. I have faith, Cas. I have to. It’s the only thing keeping me afloat right now.”

 

Cas nodded. It was settled, then. “I will continue to monitor Nick’s progress while we work on Dean,” he voiced. “If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know. I just want to be ready for when Dean is back, but I know you are right. We must take our chance when we get it.”

 

Jack wandered aimlessly around the garage, lightly touching the classic cars as he passed each one. The shiny paint wax jobs enamored him, and he wondered if Dean had recently worked on any of them. What stories each one must have. Perhaps the Ford Fairlane was used to transport one of the Men of Letters to and from work every day. Perhaps the 1943 Oldsmobile carried the children of a man whose wife had no idea what secret society he was up to. He wondered if any of them carried knives and guns like that dear old 1967 Chevy Impala did. Probably not, as the American Men of Letters were more known for their research than fighting.

 

Ah, that shiny black sedan. Dean would surely miss it, if he could only pull away from the fuzziness of angel possession long enough to remember. That car had been through everything with him. Jack knew so many stories of how it drove them away from monster chases, sheltered them from explosions, and stored countless tools it took to save the world. Sam had put gallons of demon blood in the trunk before he said yes to Lucifer. Dean had decapitated writhing, hissing beasts with its back doors. When there was no vacancy at seedy motels and even now, it was their true home. It had been for a long time.

 

Jack recalled the sound of legos rattling deep within the air conditioning and the army man in the ashtray. Yes, it really was stuck -- he had tried to pry it out. He remembered Dean telling him stories about his early childhood; being taken out of his carseat and carried inside because he was fake sleeping; hearing Led Zeppelin for the first time; the ominous look his had would give him through the rear view mirror if Dean was whining about something petty. He recalled the story of how Dean time traveled and talked his own father into buying the car six years before he was even born. That car truly had known him longer than anyone.

 

Jack froze, his fingers stilling on the Impala. Sam and Cas’ recent discussion ran through his mind. Surely his oldest friend and shelter would be enough to break the hold. It checked off everything on the list. It was just a thing, however, and couldn’t develop the psychic connection needed to reach someone so deep within a dream state. Or could it?

 

Jack looked down at the blue and green scaled dragon in his hand, thought of the drone from which he had created it, looked back at the car, and smiled to himself. He had an idea.


	2. Levee's Going to Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Using his new power to change the Winchesters' longest standing rock into a weapon against Michael, Jack takes matters into his own hands in order to help Dean in the best way he knows how. The rest of the family is apprehensive, but quickly formulate a plan that will take Michael by surprise.

In his heart of hearts, he knew none of it was real. But it was everything he ever wanted: toes in the hot sand; the occasional wave sneaking up shore, cooling off his feet; Sam playing frisbee with a dog -- what was it with him and dogs? -- and then there was Cas.

 

Dean could count on one hand the number of outfits that guy had worn, and usually it was that holy tax accountant getup with that goddamn trench coat. Dean knew it wasn’t the most flattering look on him, but now that the only thing covering Cas was a pair of swim trunks, he realized just how much his eyes had been missing out on. He was… not at all like Dean had envisioned. Had he been envisioning him shirtless all this time? If so, he had never been so wrong. Reality was so much better. Muscular arms, pecs of steel, skin that tanned at the very hint of sun… and the hip bones. Dear lord baby Jesus, he really should stop staring at those.

 

Luckily for Dean, he had sunglasses to hide his fixed stare as Cas approached him from the shoreline. “You just got out there,” Dean chided. “What’s the matter? Water too cold?”

 

“The fish won’t stop nibbling on my toes,” Cas grumbled.

 

Dean smiled through a chuckle. “Shoulda’ gotten those water shoes at the gift shop.”

 

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Cas countered. “There are roughly thirty gift shops along this boardwalk. And the prices are too high at every single one.”

 

“That’s not what you said when I bought you salt water taffy.”

 

Cas paused, poking his toes into the sand. “That’s considered a souvenir.”

 

“You’re such an ass,” Dean sighed, pulling himself up before stepping closer to Cas. “C’mon, let’s get back in. I’ll fight off the scary fishies.” He put his hand on Cas’ bare shoulder and encouraged him back to the water. Man, did skin on skin feel different. He should take his hand off of him now. They were almost at the shoreline. Cas’ skin was tan, and there was a tiny bit of sunscreen residue -- which Dean insisted on, even though “angels don’t need that, Dean”; he was still a bit wet from a wave crashing down on him, and hot from the summer sun, and it was  _ perfect. _ Cas was perfect, and it didn’t even matter if he didn’t usually dig dudes this way because he was only in his own head; who was he going to tell? He was safe here, in his mind, crushing hard on this perfectly sculpted, blue eyed man.

 

The water was up to their knees now, and Dean still hadn’t removed his hand. How could he? He had to make sure Cas wouldn’t get knocked over by an unsuspecting wave. Besides, Cas had made zero comments or body language that would suggest he was uncomfortable. Dean glanced back over at Sam, who was still preoccupied with the dog. Good, no witnesses. On his shoulder the hand would remain.

 

* * *

 

Jack could feel his heart beating into his throat. Never in all his hunts, family meetings, or scoldings had he felt so afraid of the consequences of his actions. He had hurt people, which frightened him, but those were mostly accidents. This was a carefully executed plan, with every move purposeful and meaning behind every detail. He had made some executive decisions while hunting away from Sam and Dean for which he had to answer, but they mostly came down to one dead werewolf instead of a whole pack of dead werewolves. Today, he had used his powers to create a weapon against Michael’s control that contained the best of both worlds between something Dean knew and something that could think. But he did it without anyone’s permission.

 

“Sam,” Jack muttered nervously, “can I talk to you… about Dean?”

 

Looking up from his reading at the War Room table, Sam nodded and set his book down. “Of course, Jack. What is it?”

 

“You and Castiel said we need a mental trigger to momentarily cut through the dream state, just long enough for him to notice the glitch and get back control.” Jack sat down and Sam nodded in agreement. “Someone or something Dean has known longer than anyone, even his mother.”

 

Sam furrowed his brows. “I’m not sure what you mean by some _ thing _ .”

 

“I remember you telling stories about how your memories of you and Dean ran through your head before you pushed back Lucifer. Was there anything that happened before then? What caused you to think of the memories?”

 

Sam swallowed as he concentrated, that day still fresh in his mind but the exact moment of clarity for which Jack was asking a bit fuzzy. “Uh, I just saw this glare, right in my eye. And it made me look over at the ashtray in the car. And then I just started having these flashbacks of when we got that green army man stuck in it. After that, everything started rushing back to me.”

 

“Okay,” Jack concluded, “so the first memory was from the car.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, as if just realizing it himself.

 

“And the glare that caught your attention away from beating up Dean was from…?”

 

Sam paused, his face shifting slightly. “The car.”

 

“Yes!” Jack said excitedly, clenching his fists. “But Dean is going to need something to reach into his mind and get his attention -- his own ‘glare’, so to speak. He isn’t as strong against Michael as you were against Lucifer.”

 

It was thoughtful of Jack not to bring up Sam guzzling demon blood hours before the scene at the cemetery, but he stayed quiet so Jack would continue the conversation.

 

“And the car is the one thing Dean has known longer than anyone else. Technically, they met in 1973. Mary couldn’t make the psychic connection, but I bet the car could.”

 

“Yeah but Jack,” Sam coughed, “the car isn’t a person.”

 

Jack shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact.

 

Sam’s smile dropped. It had been a suspiciously long time since Jack had left with his latest creation -- far enough time to recharge and go for something bigger.

 

“Jack,” he urged, sitting straight in his chair. “What did you do?”

 

 

* * *

 

Hands. Those were the first things she noticed. What useful things to have! Now she could hold the grenade launcher instead of just letting it sit idle. She? Yes, she was fine. She liked she. Now if only she could decide on a name. That was the second thing she noticed. Usually things with hearts and brains had names. Real names, not pet names. The third thing she noticed were the scenes playing out in her head that she had shared with the boys. Toys scattered on the floor, spilled soda, fingerprints on glass, and every secret they ever told her. She knew every secret wish, fantasies of a different life, things about them they dared not tell each other. Memories. That’s what those scenes were called.

 

She pressed the button to the garage door and watched it lift. Sunlight streaming in, she stood in its rays and felt them touch her skin. What a beautiful thing, giving light and life to the planet. Created on the fourth day, she recalled from her early days on the road with Sal Moriarty. Outside, a chipmunk ran across the pavement and a bird flew from tree to tree.

 

Hearing the heavy bunker doors swing open with a low squeak, she turned around to see, for the first time with actual eyes, Sam Winchester and Jack Kline. She didn’t miss the apprehension on Sam’s face, nor the sheer terror on Jack’s. Seeing their hesitation, she took the initiative to step into their space.

 

Sam had tried to mentally prepare himself for this, but froze on the spot, so he was actually quite glad she decided to close the distance. She had the eyes of an old soul, belonging to someone who had seen far too much for one lifetime. Their sparkle told of millions of miles of heroism, determination, and endurance. The fire in them was unquenchable, unstoppable until her work was done. She was here, in the flesh, and suddenly all he wanted to do was spend days thanking her for being his home, shelter, and listening ear. Seeing the glint behind her eyes was enough to inspire him to rush back into the frontlines of the war against Michael, and she hadn’t even spoken yet.

 

“Hey Sam,” she greeted with a smile. 

 

“Hey,” he gasped, all previously prepared words escaping, as nothing seemed good enough.

 

A light buzz hummed around her for a moment, then drifted off. She stepped forward once more and pulled Sam into an embrace, her unkempt hair in his face as he choked back a sob. She held him closer as she felt him sniffle against her shoulder, regretting that she couldn’t have given him small affirmations such as this throughout his entire life.

 

“I feel like, uh,” Sam bumbled, “like I’m meeting a parent for the first time.” He pulled away and ran his hands over his face, grounding himself in what was happening.

 

She shrugged. “Maybe a bit more like a nanny. Always hauling y’all around, can’t control ya, and shit pay,” she teased, lightly elbowing him.

 

Sam actually laughed. “Yeah, true. Most of the uncontrollable part is Dean, though.”

 

“Speaking of,” she interjected. “Did Jack give you the low-down?”

 

“Yes, and right before we came in he told me that he included some of his grace when he created you?” The end was more of a question than a declarative sentence.

 

“Yep, it’s safe and sound,” she replied, patting her throat. “With this, I can turn back into my original form at will.” She turned towards Jack and changed the subject. “Jack, I have a name for myself.”

 

“Tell us,” he encouraged.

 

“Bee,” she announced proudly.

 

Puzzled as to the inspiration for the name, Sam piped up. “Bee as in the letter ‘B’?” 

 

“No, as in the bee that just flew around me. They’re cute. I can see why Castiel likes them.” She watched as the insect, too far away to hear buzzing anymore, flew out of the garage towards some flowers. “Maybe once my engine dies I’ll come back as one. Speaking of Cas, does he know about me yet?”

 

All the blood rushed to Sam’s brain as he realized that Cas was due to be back from grocery shopping nearly an hour ago. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Cas flung open the garage door and his gaze landed on the one thing that was out of place. The vaguely disapproving glare didn’t bother Bee, but she knew it would take him a minute, as he had no forewarning.

 

“Jack,” Cas growled. “What have you done?”

 

“Father, I was going to tell you,” Jack struggled to defend himself in the moment.

 

“Hey, what’s your bag, man?” Bee jumped in. “The kid’s got it all figured out. I pick at Dean’s brain, Dean realizes ‘oh crap I gotta make this archangel flake off’, I shove some nephilim grace down his pie hole, Dean kicks Michael to the curb, boom, we make it home in time for primetime TV.”

 

Sam squinted. “‘What’s in your bag’? Who even says that?”

 

“I rolled off the line in 1967, young man. A few of the assembly line workers might’ve actually been cool in their day.”

 

During this brief drama, Castiel had approached the group, his initial shock subsiding. He knew Jack meant well, but he had to make absolutely sure of the plan before taking Bee along with them to see Dean, because  _ this might actually work _ .

 

“You  _ will  _ make sure he has nephilim grace in his body before he ejects Michael, correct?” the skeptical angel questioned.

 

“Yes, Cas,” Bee replied patiently.

 

“Why is that so important?” Jack asked.

 

“Because it’ll keep him alive,” Cas explained briefly, not wanting to bring up his father’s disposed vessel lying comatose in the hospital.

 

“Alright, let’s do this!” Bee exclaimed. “Cas, go get that mixtape. Sam, grab me some holsters. Jack, get the pie out of the fridge. We’re going to rain down on that dickhead, Michael.” The four could hardly stop the smiles forming on their faces. “And if it keeps on raining, levee’s going to break.”

 

* * *

 

The crash of the waves drowned out the repetitive beach music in the background. Dean tried to figure out where it was coming from, once. He ended up walking two miles up and down the boardwalk, never hearing the music get any louder or quieter. It was just another reminder that this was a dream world in which Michael had stuck him, forever a prisoner in his own body. He wouldn’t be Dean Winchester if he hadn’t tried to escape, of course. That didn’t work, either. All of the doors that weren’t a gift shop or their hotel were painted on, and none of the sand and stones worked for exorcism spells. He tried screaming for help, throwing beach chairs into windows, and punching his brother and best friend. He even attempted to drown himself, but as soon as the salt water began burning his lungs and his breathing stopped, he woke back up again on the same fold-up chair, surrounded by the same cliche Beach Boys tunes.

 

_ My god, would it kill them to play some Metallica?  _ another voice said. Wait. Another voice? Did he only hear it in his head, or was it out loud? It happened so fast, he wasn’t even sure. It didn’t sound like his usual inner monologue. He decided to talk back.

 

He guffawed. “I know, right? What’s with all the surf music?”

 

“Hey,” Sam called out above the waves, laying out on his own chair right beside him. “Who you talkin’ to?”

 

Ah, shit. So it really was just in his head. Weird, though. He could’ve sworn that wasn’t his voice. “Uh, I just thought I heard something,” was his response.

 

“Dude, are you talking to yourself?” Sam taunted.

 

Dean huffed a small laugh, deeply concerned but deciding to remain quiet. Great, now he was losing his mind.

 

* * *

 

Bee opened her eyes, a smile creeping across her face. “I’ve got him,” she said softly. They had all piled into Cas’ car and were on their way to Michael’s last known location, intelligence of Bobby and company. Her comrades’ eyes lit up instantly.

 

“You made the psychic connection?” Sam gasped from the front seat. Cas looked back at her in the rear view mirror.

 

“Yeah, you were right about the happy ending thing,” she affirmed. “Michael’s got him stuck in an eternal Kokomo music video. I directed some snide comment towards him and he responded. Out loud.” Jack raised his brows, relieved at the progress already being made.

 

“This is very good news,” Castiel agreed. Even the most cautious one in the group dared to believe. Dean was reachable. This plan could work.

 

The abandoned Cold War missile base was foreboding and mildly threatening. Everything was concrete: the walls, ceilings, floors, crumbling troughs, and rectangular depressions in the floor now filled with water which had leaked in over years of disrepair. The ominously quiet concrete rooms were interrupted only by echoey steel tunnels, long and dark. How Bobby’s army had managed to track Michael here, the four had no idea, but it only validated their immense tactical skill set.

 

In single file Cas, Jack, Sam, and Bee wordlessly rounded every corner, never entering the room until the line leader gave a nod for “all clear.” Quietly sloshing through wet rooms and tiptoeing through dry ones, the group had cleared four rooms, a short staircase, and three tunnels when suddenly Cas jumped back upon peeking into the next all-cement space. He motioned back with his hand down by his leg, indicating for them to stay out of sight.

 

“Is that you again, Castiel?” the low voice called out, all echoes absorbed by the rough concrete.

 

“Yes,” he replied, walking into the dim room alone. “Like you said, Michael, I never learn.”

 

The name of the archangel was Bee’s queue. Her mind reaching out, she envisioned the beach, the sand, waves, awful surfer music, overpriced gift shops, the boardwalk, and Dean’s fold up chair. He wasn’t in it. Where was he? She checked under the water and saw only fish, occasionally biting at the algae on the shells in the shallows. Looking as far as she could to her left and right, she could only see lots of sand and a horizon of blue. Curious about how she was projecting herself in this dream world, she looked down but saw no body attached. Hmm, must be astral, then.

 

“Hey, my baby made it!” a familiar voice boomed from far behind her.

 

Turning around, she saw herself -- in her original, four-doored, much shinier form -- parked right on the boardwalk, which was totally illegal, but besides the point. She gasped as Dean excitedly made the announcement to his nearby brother and angel. That hadn’t happened the first try. This time he could see her -- exactly as he remembered her back home.  _ She was there _ . The connection was so strong that she was present in the dream state. Oh, hell to the yes.

 

Keeping her foothold in Dean’s psyche, she listened as Cas groaned in pain in the other room. Michael was showing no signs of losing control to his vessel. Whatever was happening in Dean’s mind right now, it wasn’t enough. She decided to call out to him like before.

 

Next in line to face Michael were Sam and Jack, who ran in together. Although she could hear them exchanging heated words, she was more focused on this psychic connection that was supposedly going to save everyone. After a few times of projecting his name calmly with no response, Bee concentrated a rod of energy shooting his name into his mind like a blood-curdling scream.

 

Beeeeep!

 

“Ugh, are you kidding me,” Bee mumbled under her breath. “I really just fucking beeped in Dream World.”

 

“Woah there,” Dean chuckled while patting the top of the steering wheel, leaning in through the window. “Somebody spontaneously honking? Easy fix. Sammy, grab me my tool box!”

 

Rolling her eyes, Bee listened for movement in the other room and heard screaming from Sam and threats from Jack. When the sound of crushing bone made Sam stop mid-sentence, Jack began sounding even more aggressive, sounds of fists on face punctuating his rage. Amid the pain, Sam pleaded with Jack to run, but he refused. Michael laughed at the camaraderie between these two over the hopeless cause of speaking face to face with his vessel.

 

Bee tore her attention back to Dean’s mind and was horrified to see that he had just finished putting everything back in place under the steering wheel and his tools in the trunk. She sent a scream through again, but it was met with total silence. Dean had unwittingly quieted all noise she could generate by fixing the mechanics under the steering wheel. With no one to hear her, Bee let out a long groan and even longer string of curse words. Team Get Dean Back was running out of options.

 

Michael revelled in the anguish he was causing Dean’s family. The most pathetic part was, none of them were really fighting back. Cas had a bloody nose with his back pressed against the wall, suspended in the air and struggling to breathe. Sam was trying to keep it together as his ribs were being crushed right under his skin, but the pain was nauseating. When he got too quiet, Michael cracked one just a bit more to send him wailing once again. Jack’s face was red from screaming, but couldn’t currently do much talking as his mouth was preoccupied with spitting up blood. He could sense the nephilim was gaining strength and could’ve at least given him a good beating, but it would’ve probably mortally wounded his vessel, which is why he was holding back. Maybe once his master plan was executed, he would kill Dean while they watched.

 

_ Oh Mickey you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mickey!  _

 

Bewildered, Michael snapped his attention away from his three detainees and towards the strange sound. The song stopped abruptly and he heard tape being ripped out of the bottom of a cassette before the person carrying it stepped into the room. She seemed to look right through him, unblinking, as if she knew everything he ever did, and the archangel took a step back. She wore weapons everywhere, all of which were useless on him, but he was still intrigued by the preparedness. There was something strange about this one; was she even human?

 

Bee threw the ruined cassette tape onto the ground between them. “Can you believe he actually bought the whole Word of Mouth album, just for that one song?” she fussed. “I would’ve just gotten the single, but whatever.” She finished with a shrug and crushed the tape underfoot on her way to face Michael up close. Carefully balancing between two worlds, she saw Dean closeby on the beach, a couple of girls coming up to talk to him about cars.

 

“You’re a new one,” Michael commented, releasing Sam, Cas, and Jack from his grasp.

 

“I’m really not,” she countered.

 

Breathing in deeply, Cas stumbled over to Sam, who was wincing in pain as he pushed himself away from the new development while trying to keep his torso as still as possible. Jack wiped his mouth and stepped back, but didn’t make any move to leave.

 

“Jack, help Sam get to the car,” Bee ordered gently, keeping eye contact with Michael. “Cas, you know what to do.” 

 

“What is this?” Michael challenged, stepping into Bee’s space as everyone but he and the mystery guest left. “Who are you?”

 

“It’s a surprise!” she answered gleefully. Attempting to make contact with Dean again in his dream state, she focused her energy to push him over on the beach, but she just fell through, as useless as a newbie ghost. Frazzled, she tried picking up sand, but to no avail. Everyone around her was laughing and admiring the paint job and talking horsepower and she couldn’t even make a literal splash. “I’d like to talk to Dean, please,” she continued cordially.

 

Michael twisted Dean’s face into a cruel chuckle and shook his head. “Asking politely will not help any more than your friends’ shouting.” Michael placed his hand on her shoulder and lightly pushed her back. “Why don’t you and your crashers run along?”

 

Seeing two realities at once, Bee felt the force of his push and saw her original form on the boardwalk slightly tilt, sitting back up with a short bounce that everyone at the beach seemed confused by. Eyes wide with realization, she inhaled slowly and unholstered the sawed off shotgun loaded with salt rounds.

 

“Well Mikey, it looks like we’re going to have problems. Because I’m not going anywhere.” She was working hard to keep her voice from shaking, the possibility of this not working getting to her head. So many things could go wrong. So many things had already gone wrong, and if this visit ended badly, the team might not get another chance. 

 

Steadying the gun against her shoulder, she pumped a round into the chamber and took care to point slightly off center mass. “I’ve never even shot one of these before!” she laughed. “I’ve seen it done a million times, though. Let’s see what this little tyke can do.” She pulled the trigger and felt the recoil pulse down her spine, the deafening crack of fire even more exhilarating in real life. Salt splattered all over Michael, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he tilted his head and gave a perplexed smirk.

 

“Surely you didn’t actually think that was going to do anything?”

 

Bee just smiled. “What about this?” she asked wistfully, reaching back to unsheath an angel blade. “I wonder what this does.” Heart hammering in her throat, she stepped closer and pointed the blade at the face Michael was wearing. With a quick flick, she slashed a small cut across his cheek. Exhaling slowly, she watched as the vain archangel touched the blood disapprovingly.

 

“I suppose you have a death wish,” he deadpanned, thumbing the blood over his fingers. 

 

In one last act of provocation, she flipped the blade down and struck his head with it. Clenching her fists and squinting, she braced herself for his impending blow. As his fist sent her tumbling to the cold cement floor, the same force caused a dent in her shiny black coat deep within Dean’s mind.

 

“Hey!” Dean yelled, the damage done before his very eyes, but with no one close enough to have caused it. “Who the hell did that?” The girls at the beach looked at each other, shrugging before walking off. Sam came closer and inspected the dent while Cas kicked around a beach ball nearby. “You guys saw that, right?”

 

“Maybe someone threw a rock or something, Dean,” Sam proposed. 

 

“No dude,” he insisted. “I know what I saw. Someone’s gonna get an ass whoopin’. What the hell is going on?”

 

Lying on cement, Bee grunted as Michael kicked her in the stomach, over and over and over. The pain was sickening, and blood was dripping from her mouth. As he lifted his leg to strike her again, she grabbed it and yanked him towards her, slipping him off balance. While he fell to the ground, she raised herself to her knees, then to her feet, amid the excruciating internal injuries. In one swift motion, she lifted him up and hurled him against the solid, unforgiving wall.

 

Michael slid down the wall, the impression of where his body had been thrown cracking the cement. “You aren’t human, are you?” he hummed tenderly, noticing her strength as he rubbed the back of his head. 

 

Ignoring the question, she landed a punch right in his jaw. Before she could rear back and hit him again, he jumped her and pinned her down. She could feel the unearthly power radiating off of him as he kept her still despite her struggling. Laying his forearm over her throat, he used his free hand to repeatedly punch her face. Much to Michael’s fury, she almost smiled between each blow. Dean was going to be so pissed.

 

Beach music happily played, a dog barked in the background, and the waves continued to welcome visitors into the salty ocean water, but it was all forgotten. On the boardwalk sat a 1967 Chevy Impala, the victim of shattered windows, a busted headlight -- scratch that, two busted headlights, the top of the frame crushed, and four flat tires. Dean paced back and forth, watching helplessly as more awful things befell his car while he watched.

 

“Who the hell is doing this?” he roared, running his hands through his hair furiously.

 

Clutching her throat, Michael lifted Bee to her feet and slammed her against the wall. Grabbing a tool from her own holster, he lifted the blunt instrument for her to see. “I wonder what this does,” he growled, pressing the tip of the crowbar into her skin.

 

“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she huffed with feigned concern, each breath labored.

 

Dean snapped. A rage like he’d never known washed over him, his face reddening and hands forming fists. He was so absorbed in his vexation that he didn’t notice the sky rumbling and ground shake, clouds blocking the sun and the air turning cold. How could he notice something so trivial as the sudden change in surroundings when a long, deep gnash was being pulled all the way down the side of the car? The rough squeak of steel being defaced drove him over the edge. Amid his swearing, a flash of someone’s form appeared in front of the car, bending over it and dragging a crowbar across the frame. It was gone in a split second, but he knew that person anywhere.

 

He looked around him and saw Sam and Cas glitch in and out. In the blink of an eye, the gray, windy beach gave way to a dark, cement room, and then back to the beach again. His back to the howling gusts, he turned to the place he knew Michael was standing and stared a hole into him, waiting for the glitch in the matrix to reveal him once more so he could give him a long-needed assault.

 

“Michael, you son of a bitch!” Dean erupted. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a lot of Bee in this chapter, but she's kind of an important part of the plan so... sorry not sorry I guess?
> 
> I PROMISE there will be more of the boys and even more of Dean and Cas SOON being gay AF, so hang tight! Thanks for reading. Feedback is appreciated!


	3. Lonely Is the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Dean back in control of his body, the time is right to cast out the unwelcome archangel. But will his post-Michael state be a fate worse than death?

For a split second, it was Dean. Angry, frightened, confused, determined Dean, looking straight at her, and then he was gone again. It was now or never. Just as she did right outside the room minutes before, Bee held each reel of the mixtape in her fingers started to play it. As Ramble On began to blare into the cold, echoless space, Michael blinked and held the crowbar high above his head.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, hammering the heavy, blunt tool onto her mercilessly.

 

“I said,” Bee wheezed between beatings, “I’d like to speak to Dean, please.”

 

To Dean’s delight, the repetitive tropical tunes abruptly stopped, replaced with his beloved Led Zeppelin. And one of his favorite songs, too! In a flashback that seemed to replay right before his eyes, he saw himself deciding to make it the first track on the mixtape he’d give Cas. He recalled keeping it all a secret, pausing from his work and starting the song over if Cas ever barged in uninvited. He remembered giving it to him in passing, trying not to sound awkward or make excessive eye contact. His heart was beating so fast as the angel’s fingers brushed his while taking it from his hand. He remembered Cas trying to give it back.

 

_ It’s a gift. You keep those. _

 

Castiel. Angel of the Lord. All those warding sigils Bobby drew on the barn seemed so silly in hindsight. So did stabbing his future best friend in the heart as soon as he met him, but he was more of the “shoot first, ask questions never” type back then. But Cas had changed, too. Cas used to be kind of a dick. Throughout the years, however, he took on a little bit of humanity. He learned free will and empathy and social graces. They had even gotten kicked out of a brothel together! He hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time. Cas, man. Just… Cas. They had made each other better. Dean taught him a little humanity, and Cas taught him a little grace.

 

The memories washed aside when he caught a glimpse of Michael lifting the crowbar into the air. Lunging forward, he headlocked the offender and threw both of them onto the ground. Grumbling partial phrases about revenge, going back on their deal, and something about a son-of-a-bitch, Dean held him as tightly as possible, afraid giving any slack would let him loose again. Squeezing his throat, he delighted in the sounds of the archangel struggling to breathe under his grasp until suddenly --

 

Concrete. Walls, ceiling, floors, all concrete. In the corner, a small puddle of water had collected from the last rain. In the front of the room was a pile of junk from when the building had been abandoned. Realizing his arm was still raised, he lowered it to see he had been holding an iron crowbar. On the floor, to his horror, was a mangled, bloodied form curled up in a ball. She was clutching onto something, holding it close to her, and the next song on his mixtape began.

 

“Oh my god,” Dean gulped. “Are you oka--” he stopped abruptly as Michael fought for control.

 

Bee squinted at him, eyes swollen, slipped the tape into one of her holsters and trembled as she pushed herself up. “Dean, you’ve gotta kick him out.”

 

So many questions ran through his head, but he couldn’t vocalize a single one; he was too concentrated on keeping a grip on Michael. Dean let out a long, pained yell. If he didn’t do something quick, he was going to lose control, just like back at the church. It was a feeling he would not soon forget.

 

“I can’t!” he wailed through gritted teeth.

 

Bee slipped the angel blade out of its sheath, gave her neck a quick slit, yanked it out with her bare hand, and shoved it down his throat. “Here, this’ll help,” she promised, keeping his mouth covered until the light was gone from his mouth.

 

In the vessel Michael had called home for so long, a loud rumbling rolled across the horizon. The beach sky turned red, rays of orange and gold stretching out from a single point in the sky. Like lightning, a blinding white light struck Dean, supercharging him in his struggle against Michael. He held the terrified archangel by his collar at arms’ length and punched him harder than he’d ever punched anyone. It was invigorating. Again and again he slugged him, enjoying the burst of power over his oppressor.

 

Dragging Michael’s bleeding face up to his, Dean glared into his eyes and ordered, “You get the hell outta my body, you kinky son of a bitch.” Swinging him toward the white light and rays of orange and gold, Dean launched Michael into the vortex, watching as the screaming, defeated invader disappeared into the clouds. Without even a moment to enjoy his victory, Dean wobbled around as the world around him began to crumble, water drying up and chunks of land being sucked downward into oblivion. Everything around him was swallowed by the sinkhole, including the buildings, car, fold up chair, and ground.

 

And then there was nothing.

  
  


Seeing Michael’s grace stream out of Dean with the haste of a conniving showrunner who had overstayed his welcome was nothing short of glorious. Every dark corner and embedded crack in the room was illuminated as the archangel was cast out of his vessel. Too bright to witness at its apex, the scene drove Bee to hide her face, but she quickly looked up to see Dean’s limp body start to fall with the occupant now comatose and nobody else home to control it.

 

She broke his fall, steadying his arm over her shoulder. “Cas!” she called, but he was already in the room, having rushed in when he saw the light of Michael’s grace. After checking his breathing and pulse, Cas sighed with relief and supported Dean’s other side. “Are Sam and Jack at the hospital?”

 

“Yes,” he answered as they stumbled through the abandoned missile base, all either injured or unconscious. “I can transport us there. Jack knows where to meet us.”

 

“I was going to offer to switch back, but your idea sounds way faster.”

 

The sunlight took a moment for their eyes to adjust to, but it was a welcomed sight. All of Dean’s weight supported by the two, Cas reached across to hold Bee’s arm so he was in contact with all he needed to transport. Still caked with blood, she raised her head to look at Cas before they set off.

 

“He’s gonna be real excited to talk to you again, Cas,” she heartened him. “Memories of you are what brought him back. I thought you should know that.”

 

* * *

Castiel, leader of armies. Savior of Dean Winchester. Defiant angel. Killed by Raphael, Lucifer, Leviathans, and resurrected more times than he was comfortable admitting. Devourer of souls. Dean’s companion in Purgatory. Allies with Crowley. God. Human. Vessel of Lucifer. Adoptive father to a nephilim. Embracer of free will. Repeatedly rebellious against the rules. The reason? 

 

Dean Winchester.

 

If it wasn’t a medically anomalous coma, he could’ve simply touched his forehead and healed him. But this wasn’t just any coma, and the man lying before him surrounded by fluid bags and monitors wasn’t just any man. He had just cast out an archangel, which, according to their limited knowledge on the subject, ended badly 100% of the time. Not even the archangel ejected was just any archangel. In some circles, Michael was considered the most powerful, least merciful, and most damaging. It was undisputed that he was the eldest of his mighty brothers, so the argument might hold some weight.

 

Standing steadfastly in Dean’s unit in the ICU, he held his hand and thought about all the things he wanted to tell this man. How in all his years watching man evolve, he had never met someone as insufferable, obstinate, and self-deprecating as Dean, and that he wouldn’t trade those traits for a thousand lifetimes if it meant Dean would have him for only one. How he could slap him for saying yes to Michael without a proper goodbye first, but that he would let him attempt to make up for it with their next hello. How Dean stood in the gap for his brother and Jack with no regard for his own health or very existence, and that  _ someone  _ would have to stick around to make sure his needs were being met from here on out.

 

Cas isn’t sure what to say to a comatose Dean. He isn’t even sure he will be heard. But for his own heart’s sake, he has to try.

 

* * *

 

Dean woke up with a start, darkness around him but feeling the softness of his familiar mattress below him. How long had he been asleep? Was he back at the bunker? Was Michael really out, or was this some sort of trick?

 

Despite the acts being done in his body, Dean didn’t actually recall much of Michael’s campaign march. The ruler of his vessel allowed him sneak peaks every few weeks just to taunt him, reminding him of who was really in control. If this was another one of Michael’s ways of mocking places Dean loved, he had gone too far. The bunker was his home, for real.

 

Reaching over to his side table, Dean switched the lamp on and sat up in bed. It was too quiet. Looking over at the clock hanging near the door, he realized that if, by some chance, this was real, it made sense that it was unnaturally quiet because it was 2:15. In the morning, he supposed, based on how groggy he felt. Stepping into the hallway, he tiptoed to the War Room and turned on a light. Usually Sam left a stray paper or two on the table to remind himself of what hunt they were onto next, but it was empty. Hunger growing in his stomach, he sauntered into the kitchen and pried open the refrigerator door, trying not to wake anyone.

 

The fridge was completely empty. Not a beer, cheese stick or tupperware full of leftovers in sight. He pulled open the freezer, a little less concerned about the noise. Also bare. Either Sam, Cas, and Jack had become so dependent on his grocery shopping that none of them knew what to do with themselves in his absence, or something very weird was going on. Scooting over to the cabinets, he opened one to reveal a total absence of plates, cups, and bowls. No forks or spoons in the sliding drawer, either. 

 

Fear taking him, Dean sprinted down the hallway and threw open his brother’s door. His room was empty. Not just void of Sam, but of his bed, dresser, and belongings. Breathing erratically, he darted down the hall to Cas’ room. Not a single thing was in the room. Throwing himself across from Cas’ room, he opened Jack’s door to find it empty as well. Running his hand through his hair and taking deep breaths to keep himself relatively calm, Dean paused for a moment to think before leaping up the bunker stairs two steps at a time to reach the front door. 

 

Heavy and noisy, the door opened to reveal… the outside. In broad daylight. Thoroughly confused and slightly disturbed, he turned on his heel to start his descent down the stairs, only to be met with nothing below his feet. Free falling with no time to plan his landing, Dean braced himself for the inevitable hard floor, closing his eyes in terror, his heart racing. When he felt nothing beneath him, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting straight up on the couch in his Fortress of Deanitude… beside Cas.

 

“You fell asleep again,” Cas mumbled, unimpressed by his startled awakening.

 

“Uh,” Dean began, still breathing hard, “where the hell am I?”

 

Cas looked around skeptically, then back at Dean. “We are in the Dean Cave, as you call it. Watching that John Wayne Movie with the scared lady on the front.”

 

Dean thought long and hard. “Rooster Cogburn?”

 

“No, the other one.”

 

“The Quiet Man?”

 

“Yes,” Cas answered, taking a handful of popcorn out of the bag. “Would you like some?”

 

Still shaken by his alleged dream, Dean nodded and reached for the delicious popped kernels of pure joy. His hand right above the microwave bag, he dipped his fingers in to grab a few pieces. When he felt nothing, he tried again, this time watching what he was doing. To his dismay, he couldn’t feel the popcorn. He had picked it up, but the light, fluffy texture was absent. Putting it into his mouth, he went through the motions of chewing and swallowing, but only knew there was food in there because of the space it took up in his cheeks. He looked over at Cas, who was staring at him worryingly, then back at his hand, and sank into the realization that this wasn’t real either.

 

“I’m in a fucking coma,” Dean sighed, plopping his head on the back of the sofa.

 

Cas didn’t respond. Fake him seemed content leaving Dean to his existential crisis as he munched on the movie snacks and watched the TV screen.

 

“Excuse me? Rude,” Dean scolded, poking Cas repeatedly in the shoulder. “I’m waking up to a dream in a dream thing, and you’re watching John Wayne.” Cas reacted, looking down at where he was being jabbed, obviously not afflicted by the same lack of touch Dean was. “So Michael’s gone, then?”

 

“He is gone,” Cas replied, tossing another piece into his mouth. “And yes, you are in a coma. At least there’s food in this part of it.”

 

“You got that right,” Dean replied, understanding that this wasn’t the real Cas; this was his own mind talking to himself. He reached for some more popcorn and continued watching, hoping he would stay in this part of his mind’s eye. Even if it was coma-brain Cas, it beat being alone and hungry. Snacking and leaning toward the middle of the couch, his mind drifted to what the man beside him looked like in those swim trunks.

 

Yearning for more contact, Dean’s hand wandered over to Cas instead of the popcorn bag. He had to look at what he was doing, but he curled his fingers over Cas’ hand and waited for pushback. Cas smiled but didn’t make any comments, so he kept his hand there. Man, it really sucked that he couldn’t feel this. He tried to imagine the warmth and softness underneath his touch. Or maybe he had cold hands, or rough and calloused. Maybe in real life, Cas would intertwine their fingers and rub his thumb over Dean’s hand. It didn’t matter, because none of this was real, so he might as well do whatever the hell he wanted, right? And it also didn’t matter because Dean just wanted to be close to him, to know he was welcome in his space, and it looked a lot like Cas was okay with it.

 

Between the beeps of the monitors, the occasional cough of a neighboring patient, and the sound of wheeled stretchers rolling down the hallway, Sam pattered into Dean’s unit with an ice pack against his ribs. He stood quietly for a moment beside Cas before bothering him with more that could go wrong.

 

“I just had a thought,” Sam broke the silence, his voice laced with worry. “Lucifer was full of nephilim grace when he died, so it makes sense that Nick has stayed alive for this long. Dean might not have as much time as him, since he took in a smaller amount.”

 

“You think the amount is relative to how long the coma will last?” Cas clarified, unwilling to take his eyes off Dean.

 

“I don’t wanna think about it that way, but we have to prepare for every outcome.” Sam shifted the ice pack, wincing in pain after an inhale. “Nick has lasted months on Jack’s grace, but we can’t guarantee the same for Dean. What if it’s the same situation as an angel living on borrowed grace, and it eventually has to be refilled?” He swallowed and furrowed his brows. “What happens to the coma patients when the grace runs out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading my story. I'm mostly writing this for my own development and enjoyment, but I'm super happy if you're enjoying it, too! This is my biggest project to date and I'm kind of intimidated by it, so feedback is always appreciated! Subscribe so you won't miss the next chapter:)


	4. Long Long Way to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Sam and Castiel's efforts, Jack discovers the condition his father's vessel is in. Mary and Bobby are hot on Michael's trail, but what will they do with him once they find him?

Jack had lost track of Sam somewhere between the hospital coffee shop and elevator, and he couldn’t remember the room number. Wandering the halls and following signs until he found the Intensive Care Unit, he pondered what sort of condition he would find Dean in when a familiar aura stopped him dead in his tracks. It felt like the warm glow of grace that was transferred to Dean, but with more mass. It vibrated with a low hum, heard only by Jack, and he followed the puzzling sound into one of the rooms.

 

His breath caught in his throat when he beheld the empty vessel on the hospital bed. It was his father’s face, but the body was absent of an active occupant. Opposing emotions battled in his mind as he stood staring at the man lying comatose: fear, confusion, betrayal, relief, peace, unease, violation, curiosity. Anxiety began to build in his gut, irrational fear of the unconscious man suddenly sitting up and smiting him on the spot overtaking him. He rushed out of the room, breath heavy and ears ringing. Closing his eyes to block out the world around him, Jack attempted to calm himself, but every molecule in his body was screaming “danger!”

 

“Jack.”

 

The soft but sudden voice caused him to jump with a gasp, and his eyes tore open to see Sam a few steps away with worried brows and an ice pack on his abdomen. Jack wanted to reply, but he couldn’t think of a single word to say. All speech had escaped him, even when he opened his mouth, willing himself to talk. Breaking down, he sucked in a quivering breath as tears filled his eyes.

 

Sighing with regret, Sam offered Jack a firm but gentle embrace. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” he whispered as Jack sobbed in his arms. “Keeping this from you was my idea. I didn’t want you to have to see this, and I’m sorry.”

 

Even though he wasn’t upset at Sam per se, he appreciated the comfort being offered. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had sent him into a panic, but the experience was terrifying. Focusing on Sam was helping him come down from the anxiety, so he pulled away and made a point to face away from the room.

 

“Can we go somewhere else?” he asked quietly.

 

“Sure,” Sam agreed with a short nod, leading him out of the room and towards the elevator.

 

* * *

 

Michael really wasn’t the vessel-hopping type, but these were desperate times. No one else was built to house his grace like the Michael Sword, and he had grown spoiled by being so comfortable for so long. He entered a new vessel no less than once a day, leaving the old ones torn apart from the inside out in the woods. He couldn’t just dump them in their own homes; that would leave too easy of a trail. His body of choice: televangelists. Jumping from town to town, he would assume a new identity, collect a small group of people into his home to indoctrinate, scout out an especially obnoxious preacher that night on TV, and leave his body behind, sailing off to convince another desperate soul to say yes.

 

Unbeknown to Michael, Bobby and Mary noticed the pattern and kept a map marking where each body would turn up. Not only were they onto him, but they had begun building small militias in each of the affected cities. Small factions of hunters were charged with building one-room underground shelters between the former preachers’ homes and sites of death. The reason? Call it a hunch, but Bobby suspected that Michael had a greater plan than just wasting a body and calling it a day.

 

“He’s working his way through the midwest,” Mary observed as she popped the cap off her red Sharpie and put a dot on Indianapolis. “He’s been in all the major cities in Ohio, Michigan, and Illinois already.” Having finished their angel bullet project, the two were tailing Michael and were currently at a cheap motel right outside Columbus.

 

“Balls,” Bobby spat, looking over the obituary covering the latest televangelist’s death. “He’s moving faster than we can dig bunkers. That last one didn’t last a day.”

 

“At least we’re prepared for whatever his next move is with each city,” she responded. “There’s no way he’s acting alone. He said he would ‘cleanse’ our world, and if he’s using any of the same tactics he did in your world, that means he’s building an army.” She folded the map. “This is Michael we’re talking about. He’s got something big planned.”

 

“Wish Dean were awake to tell us what the hell that is,” Bobby mumbled discontentedly.

 

“Even if we can keep him from fully executing his objective, even if we get him alone, what then? He can’t be killed except by another archangel wielding the archangel blade, but he’s the only one left. Lucifer, Gabriel, and Raphael are all dead. He can’t die.”

 

“Damn, Mary,” Bobby poked, “your optimism is contagious.” Tossing the paper onto his end table, he sat deep in the old, stiff chair and took his hat off. “We’ll think of something. For now, I’m getting some shut eye. Try not to snore too loud this time.”

 

* * *

 

Taking advantage of the time left to his thoughts, Cas stood by Dean’s hospital bed and watched his chest lightly rise and fall with each breath. Jack’s grace was working. For how long was anyone’s guess, but Cas needed to take a moment and accept this victory. The words came easily to Cas, as if the two weren’t even separated at all.

 

“Sam is concerned about the grace running out before we find a way to wake you back up,” Cas began, quietly in case anyone was still nearby. “I have to believe, you know. That you will wake up. If you were here, and it were one of us in this bed, you’d say ‘We never give up on family.’ This is what you would want… though, never for yourself. But since you’re not awake to stop me,” he smiled, “I’m taking charge, and I will never give up on you. I will do _anything_ to get you back. You say you don’t care what happens to you and you never really have? Well, I don’t care what happens to _me_ as long as you get out of this. I _will_ get you back. Even if,” Cas swallowed. “Even if it kills me.”

 

With only the beeping of the monitors above Dean’s head in response, Cas sighed heavily and leaned against the wall. He didn’t know if Dean could hear him, but he decided to believe that he could. He needed to hear every word that poured from his mouth, every desperate cry and declaration of devotion. Being in a coma and hearing him meant he would be forced to take it all without interrupting or slamming a door in Castiel’s face. So many times, they were so close -- _so close_ \-- to having a real conversation about what was going on between them, but it was always cut short by Dean frantically shutting him out, whether by literally creating a wall between them or brushing him off with a “forget it” and storming away. It was satisfying to imagine Dean sitting there in his astral body, arms crossed, flustering helplessly as Cas spouted off everything that had been on the tip of his tongue for years.

 

“Dean, I know what you mean when you say I’m family,” Cas went on. “It is an honor to be called that by you, because it’s the highest form of love you know, and the greatest you are capable of giving.” Cocking his head, he looked directly at Dean, wishing he could see his eyes react to his words. “But Dean, I’m selfish. I want your heart to hold me in a place separate from your brother, mother, and Jack. And my family is so dysfunctional, calling you my brother wouldn’t really be a compliment. So instead I’ll tell you how loyal I am to you, because it shows that my heart holds you in a place separate from all others.

 

“I defied heavenly orders to keep you alive. I’ve died on your watch, and been brought back to life, only to rejoin you again. I started a civil war in Heaven to prevent an apocalypse, because I knew you would be in its wake. I took on Sam’s post-hell trauma to redeem myself for what I did to him, so I would be in good standing with you. I was brainwashed to kill hundreds of copies of you, because Naomi was conditioning me to slaughter you without a second thought. When the time came, I broke through the mind control… for you. I have been chased down and tortured by angels I used to command. Every time I am pursued, punished, or killed, it’s always for you, Dean,” Cas choked. “I always come back to you. I never give up on you. You say ‘You never give up on family.’ I say: I never give up on the one I love more than anything else in this universe.”

 

Emotionally spent, Castiel nodded contentedly and touched Dean’s hand, laid out at his side. He tried to imagine the look on Dean’s face after this raw unveiling of his most vulnerable thoughts. The man would probably be rendered speechless with shock and unbelief. At least, that was what he assumed, after almost coming through to him multiple times and seeing the blank stare on Dean’s face. Perhaps Dean really couldn’t hear him after all; if he could, he would’ve surely sat up and covered Cas’ mouth out of sheer willpower alone.

 

Slowly trailing his hand off of Dean’s, he turned to leave, hoping against all probability that he would hear Dean’s irritated grumbling before he exited the unit. What wouldn’t he give to see him cross his arms and huff indignantly about IVs and hospital food. But the monitors kept their steady beeping, and the voice never came.

 

Instead of hearing Castiel’s heartfelt monologue, Dean was practicing his own in front of the bathroom mirror. When was the last time he was nervous about talking to someone he liked? High school? “Liked” was such a strange word to describe what he wanted to convey. It was more like “I’d move an entire mountain stone by stone for you.”

 

What was the big deal, anyway? He was in his own head. _He was safe_ . No one else would _ever_ know what was about to go down in Coma Land.

 

“So uh, Cas,” Dean began, exaggerating his body language to get out some of the jitters. “I was just thinking… No!” Shaking his head, he leaned onto the sink and stared right into the mirror. “Cas I need to tell you something important. Like super important. Dammit.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his head as he gave up on the mirror and began pacing. “I’ve been needing to tell you some stuff for a while. I kind of suck at words sometimes, so if I start rambling, just slap me. Oh god, I’m rambling,” he whispered nervously.

 

His thoughts interrupted by a knock at the door, Dean spun around and considered not answering. What did Coma Cas want with the bathroom, anyway? Was pooping even a thing here?

 

“Fuck it,” Dean murmured, then swung the door open. There stood Cas in the same old outfit as always, with that same confused expression when he could tell something was slightly off. It was so uniquely Cas, and for a moment, Dean felt completely at ease.

 

“Hey buddy,” Dean’s voice quivered, hoping his smile would make up for it.

 

“Is something the matter, Dean?” Cas inquired, brows slightly furrowed.

 

“Nah, I just… It’s just… uh,” he stammered, no suitable transitions coming to him. He realized he had been talking with his hands and dropped them at his side, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. “Cas, I’m gonna lay it out on the line here. This, all around us,” he motioned vaguely to their surroundings, “This ain’t real. My brain is making this up so it doesn’t get bored. And that thing that happened while we were watching the movie -- the part where I touched your hand? -- That wasn’t real, either. Hell, I couldn’t even feel it. But I wish I could,” he ended with a gulp.

 

Cas looked down and nodded, taking it all in patiently.

 

“Cause if that had really been you, it’d be alright with me,” Dean continued, the shaking in his voice thinly veiled by his low register. “I mean, if you don’t like Cas, do you even have a pulse?” His face wrinkled into a smile, his eyes lighting up with thoughts of just how much he adored this guy. “You’ve gone to the ends of the earth and beyond with me. Who does that?”

 

Cas’ face had relaxed. He took a step closer to Dean, which ten years ago, wouldn’t have been appreciated. Now, Dean couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have in his personal space.

 

“Seriously, man. No one else has done the things you’ve done for me. Sam has done some crazy shit, of course. So have both of my parents, and Bobby, and Charlie, and even our little Jack. They’re _family_ to me.” The words flowed freely now, Dean’s inhibitions lowering as he allowed himself to reach into his soul and touch what he had been feeling all along. “But you, Cas, you’re something else. There’s me, there’s my family, who I love more than life, and then… there’s you. You’re… in your own category, I guess. I would do anything for you.”

 

Taking a tiny step towards Cas, he noticed he was talking with his hands again, but instead of placing them at his side, he grabbed onto Cas’ hands. Such a crying shame he felt nothing. Cas, however, looked down at the gesture and smiled. Looking up at Dean with big blue eyes, he opened his mouth to reply and Dean found himself not at all interested in what he was hearing. Dean was staring at his mouth. Never in his entire life had he stared at another man’s mouth. He had caught himself checking out an ass every now and then, and their eyes, but this was so much more intimate. The way Cas’ lips moved awoke something hot and primal deep within him, and he found himself inching closer and closer.

 

He wanted to kiss Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the fourth chapter, the author said, "Let there be angst, ominous foreshadowing, and mutual pining!" And it was good.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Let me know your thoughts in the comments.


	5. Adorable Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bee is adjusting to the human condition, surrounded by a small army of people to show her the ropes. Unsure of how much time Dean has left, Castiel declares his long-standing affection and loyalty to the unresponsive coma patient. Will Cas and Dean ever be able to converse again, or will the post-archangel state sever their ties forever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at werd count *
> 
> Ooo she thicc

After an exhausting twenty four hours, Cas, Sam, Jack, and Bee slumped into the gold Lincoln, eager to return home. They had agreed to take turns visiting Dean starting tomorrow, which allowed them a night together to regroup and talk out any issues. Oh, and sleep. Team Get Dean Back could really do for some of that.

 

Cas might be an angel, but his mind still needed rest in between big jobs. Although he did not and could not sleep, periods of total quiet were necessary for him to cleanse and recharge, lest his actions become sloppy and careless. Determined to stay alert, he carried on a conversation with Bee in the car, who was, for the first time, feeling the distinct pull of sleep lulling her into unconsciousness.

 

“Why do my eyes hurt?” she asked. “And why do they feel so heavy?”

 

“You’re tired,” Cas replied. “I see Jack included the human requirement for rest when he created you.”

 

“How could you?” Bee swung her head around, the dizziness brought on by her slowing brain activity making her words a bit slurred. “All the things you could’a included in the package, and you…” She faced the front of the car again. “I could’a had laser eyes or somethin’!”

 

Jack smirked at the thought. “Need for sleep is part of the complete human experience.”

 

“But I ain’t human, man,” Bee reminded him. “I threw an archangel across a room. I’ve got the strength of 275 horses packed in here. Oh, that reminds me,” her eyes lit up when she remembered. “I need to fill up.”

 

“Eat, we call it eating,” Sam interjected, no chance of being awake if not for the topic at hand. This was, to date, one of the strangest conversations he had ever participated in. Jack had turned a vehicle into a conscious being and they were talking about food. His family was just weird enough for something like this to make sense, so go figure.

 

“You know what?” Bee started, pointing at Jack. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to try, ever since you stuck all those memories up in here.” She tapped her head and laced her fingers on her lap. “I’ve seen it so many times, and I guess now’s my chance. Dean makes it look  _ so  _ good.”

 

The remaining passengers grew quiet.

 

“Every time it’s like, man, I need that. All you guys have had it, but there’s just something about the way Dean enjoys it that just… inspires me. The noises he makes? Ughhh. I can’t stop thinking about it. I was thinking about it in the middle of beating the shit out of Michael! Is that inappropriate?”

 

“Bee,” Sam interrupted, visibly uncomfortable. “Please tell me you’re not talking about --”

 

Reaching under the seat, she pulled out the flat white box she asked Jack to bring with them.

 

“Pie!” she exclaimed. “Specifically, apple pie. I brought plates. Who’s hungry?”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s hand was on Cas’ face. He could tell because he was looking right at it, but if you asked him what he felt, it would have been nothing but the air around him. It was laughable how enthralled he was at the prospect of Cas feeling his loving touch, even if he could not.

 

“Do -- do you like this, Cas?” Dean asked, unsure of himself. Did guys like their faces to be touched like chicks did? Cas had a five o’clock shadow going on, which Dean surmised must be slightly abrasive. He felt a spark of pleasure imagining how wonderful it would feel against his own skin.

 

Cas blinked. “Yes, Dean. But did you hear what I said?”

 

Caught in the act, Dean paused, the last few minute’s happenings flashing back. He had spilled his guts to Cas, who had started to answer, and that’s when it all went to shit. Exhaling a long overdue breath, Dean rolled his eyes in shame.

 

“Cas, I’m sorry man. I was looking,” he laughed, touching the corners of his mouth. Aw hell, if everything that happens in the coma stays in the coma, he might as well be honest. “I was staring at your mouth, dude.”

 

“Oh, uh,” Cas mumbled, touching his own mouth in worry. “Is there something on it?”

 

“Hopefully my lips, in a few seconds,” he muttered under his breath. 

 

“What was that?”

 

Dean licked his lips and took a long look into those unnaturally blue eyes. “Nothin’. It’s nothing, nevermind.” Shaking his head, he turned to leave from under the bathroom door frame. Maybe in this part of his coma brain he would find food in the cabinets. Stopping himself, he turned back to Castiel, who hadn’t moved, but was still watching him steadfastly. “Cas. What did you say, anyway?”

 

“I said that I didn’t mind that you holding my hand. It was nice,” he restated, a bit awkwardly but kindly. “And it’s okay if you do it again. I’d like it.”

 

Taking the few gigantic, brave steps towards Cas it took to close the space between them, Dean declared, “Look, Cas. There’s something I’ve gotta do. I don’t know if I would have the balls to do it if I was awake, and I don’t even know if I’ll ever wake up, so I’ve gotta do it now. If I do bust through this coma, I’m gonna tell you -- the real you -- everything I told you here. The real you’s gotta know. And maybe one day, I’ll be brave enough to do this, too.” Taking Cas’ jaw in his hands, he lowered his lips onto Cas’ mouth. His heart was hammering in his chest, despite the total lack of tactility. All he had as proof of contact was Cas’ initial shock, then acceptance as his lashes relaxed and he returned the kiss, tilting his head slightly and stepping even closer to Dean. He couldn’t feel it, but he wanted to believe Cas was grabbing onto his arms, or perhaps his shoulders. 

 

Being the one to end the kiss was a burden Dean couldn’t bring himself to bear, which Castiel seemed to sense. Slowly untangling himself from Dean’s passionate hold, he pulled back enough to look Dean in the eyes, a happy expression erupting from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

 

“It’s okay if you do that again, too,” he assured.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was taking the first watch over Dean, and the rest of the bunker had filled their schedule with productive activities to make good use of the time. Sam had mentioned Rowena and Charlie stopping by, who Bee had made a point to meet in person, but had lost track of time at the bunker’s gun range. Her groupings were improving by the hour, and although her hand was sore from the hammer fire, she was having the time of her life.

 

In between the slide locking to the back and ejecting the mag, she noticed the range door open. Taking off her ear and eye protection, her face lit up when she realized it was Charlie. Not being able to reveal her true identity to anyone outside of immediate family kind of blew, but the less Bobby’s army knew, the less likely Michael would be to find out. He had seen her face, which meant she was in danger. Judging by how easily she had thrown him, he suspected that she was a step above human, which would put her high on his people of interest list.

 

“Hi!” Charlie chimed, stepping into Bee’s lane. She was geared up from a recently completed mission, by the looks of it. “Nice Desert Eagle. What caliber?”

 

“Forty five, of course,” Bee responded with a smirk.

 

“I prefer a Browning, myself,” Charlie mentioned casually, racking the slide twice before fondly testing the trigger pull. “But I’m a little bit of a brat with my 1911s.”

 

Oh, did she know a thing or two about gun brats. “I’m Bee,” she introduced, offering her hand.

 

  
“Charlie,” came the response, taking off a glove and shaking Bee’s hand. “Sam told me you’d be in here.”

 

“Yeah, I meant to come in and say hi. Sorry about that, I sorta got carried away. I’ve never actually done this before.” Bee glanced down range, where a very holey target had been abused.

 

Charlie pulled the target back up range and unclipped it. She nodded approvingly. “Not bad for twenty yards. You’re anticipating the recoil, though. Practice some dry fires.” Handing the paper to Bee, she smiled kindly and pulled out ear plugs and safety glasses of her own. “Mind if I join you?”

 

Ecstatic to have a practice mate, especially one as knowledgeable and amiable as Charlie, Bee nodded, unable to hide the enthusiasm written all over her face. She hurriedly put her protective gear back on, feeling a surge of motivation for improval to show off how quickly she could learn. Bee clipped on a new target. Hearing Charlie’s first fire of the day, Bee peeked over to her lane to see a perfect bullseye, with plenty more to come.

 

Over the next hour, the two giggled as they emptied round after round, challenging each other to tricks and laughing it off if one of them fired way off center mass. For all the memories of firearms installed in her, it was completely different to actually do it. Observing them being used gave her all the book knowledge she could ask for, but practical application was a whole new animal. Fighting the urge to twitch, aligning her thumbs just right, and finding her ideal stance was an experience like no other, and Charlie made it fun. 

 

“So what brings you in town?” Bee inquired after their last round.

 

“Big news from the front,” Charlie dramatized, “Michael is a douche-waffle.”

 

Recalling her run-in with said douche-waffle, Bee packed away her gear in the ammo can Sam gave her. She hadn’t brought it up to anyone, but the experience had terrified her. “You got that right,” she admitted vaguely, forcing a smile.

 

Not missing her abrupt tensity, but also not wanting to turn the conversation in an uncomfortable direction, Charlie continued. “Michael is massacring entire towns. At first he was doing small groups out in the boonies, which barely made the local news. But he’s getting bolder. And he’s doing it mass-suicide style.”

 

“What, like drink-the-Kool-Aid stuff?”

 

“Yeah, exactly,” she explained. “Except, the method is different for every town. He’s gotten super creative, so it’s hard to predict how he’s going to do it next.”

 

“Okay, wow, that’s… really messed up,” said Bee.

 

“That’s not all, though.” Both of them left the range and waked toward the library. “He’s reserving three people from each town. Three and only three, no matter how big the massacre is.”

 

Bee drew in a breath. “He’s building an army,” she deduced.

 

“And since Dean isn’t his vessel anymore, he’s just gotta take ‘em where he can get ‘em,” Charlie added. “It’s slowing him down, but not by much. We’re trailing Michael and his army best we can.”

 

“What’s he doing with the army?”

 

Charlie let out a distraught sigh. “Rowena and I are still trying to figure that out.”

 

As they entered the library, it became apparent that Sam and Rowena had been having the same conversation. Sam was leaning against the table, listening intently to the red haired witch as she expressively retold the story of how they narrowly escaped a gas leak fire that ended up being one of Michael’s “purifying” tactics.

 

“I just don’t understand why he’s relying on humans,” Sam pondered. “He hates humans.”

 

“Well, as you know,” Rowena replied, sitting at the table, “there aren’t even enough angels left to fill a Shinty team. He could be getting desperate.”

 

“He sure has a weird way of ‘building’ a group, since most of that group ends up dead,” Bee piped up.

 

“Aye,” Rowena agreed, glancing over at her curiously.

 

Now here was a face Bee knew well. She wanted so badly to greet her like an old friend, but had to act like they had never met. Nervous under her prying stare, Bee began to wonder if, as a witch, she could sense that there was something not quite right about her.

 

“My name is Bee,” she greeted, giving a short nod in her direction in respect.

 

“Like the letter?” Rowena asked, her lip curling up in confusion.

 

Smiling, Bee shook her head. “No, like a bumble bee.”

 

Rowena gave one slow nod and fell quiet. “Oh.”

 

Relieved that the shift change was coming, Bee excused herself and traveled to the hospital on foot. Another perk of being whatever freak creature she was: She could run just as fast as she could drive. The road into Lebanon was just as void of traffic as always this time of night, and she could tell someone was coming by their headlights. Arriving at the hospital at a slow jog, she pushed back the odd interaction with Rowena and focused on the task ahead.

 

As expected, Bee found Cas sitting in a chair right inside the curtain that separated Dean’s unit from the rest of the coma patients. Noticing her as soon as she came in, he stood up and offered his seat.

 

“The nurse just came by to check his blood pressure,” Cas said to stimulate conversation.

 

Understanding he was at a general loss of words, Bee placed her hand on his back comfortingly and suggested, “Would you like me to teach you how to speak with him?”

 

Castiel’s eyes widened. “I can do that? I thought only you could do that.”

 

“I’m the only one who’s deeply embedded into his memory enough to have the ability by default,” she corrected, taking his hand and placing it on Dean’s. “That doesn’t mean you can’t learn.” Keeping her hand on both of theirs, she closed her eyes. “Alright, take a deep breath and concentrate on Dean on the exhale. His soul, his manner, his thoughts. Ease yourself into his mind.”

 

Eyes closed, Cas breathed out and felt his soul connecting to Dean, the touch of his hand strengthening the connection. At first the things playing in his mind’s eye were jumbled up and confusing, but he latched onto one single thought and held on until it materialized around him.

 

Seeing that he no longer required his assistance, Bee eased him back into the chair and removed her hand. Content to stand until he had a chance to talk with Dean, she poured herself a cup of water from the dispenser across from the ICU and stood watch from outside the unit. To fill her time, she thought about all the things she had learned from Charlie that day.

 

Keeping his mind fixed on the connection between his brain and Dean’s, Cas sank deeper and deeper into the dark, until he landed in vibrant green grass beside a forested area. Sitting up, he inspected his surroundings to find a waterfall behind him, the breeze spraying tiny water droplets onto his face, and Dean approaching him from behind the trees as if he fully expected him to be there.

 

“Dean!” Cas exclaimed, standing up excitedly and walking towards him.

 

Picking up on his wide eyes taking in the change in surroundings, Dean picked up a gingham tablecloth from behind a tree and mentioned nonchalantly, “I know, these coma layers are trippy. You shoulda seen the first one. It felt like the middle of the night, but it was day, and you and Sam and all the silverware were missing.” He laid the cloth down on the grass and motioned for Cas to sit. “After our ‘thing’ outside the bathroom, I took a nap and woke up in the woods with a picnic basket and this thing. I thought, ‘Well, the picnic is a little much, but I could do with the change of scenery and something under my ass besides ants.’”

 

Puzzled, Cas sat down on the red and white tablecloth and tried to piece together Dean’s explanation. Why wasn’t he surprised to see him?

 

“Dean, it’s me,” Cas insisted, looking intently into his gorgeous green eyes as Dean plopped himself down with a view of the waterfall.

 

He raised a brow. “Yeah, I see that, Cas.”

 

This visit wasn’t going at all like Cas imagined. Usually after prolonged periods of absence, he was welcomed with open arms. Obviously Dean was aware of his comatose state, but why had he acted so unsurprised by Cas’ presence?

 

Cas mentally ran through everything Dean had told him, but couldn’t figure out one minor detail. “What did you mean by our ‘thing’ outside the bathroom?”

 

Dean had been lost in thought staring at the waterfall, but slowly turned back to Cas, his eyes shifting. “The kiss, man.”

 

Slightly squinting, Cas dug through his very few memories and he was absolutely sure he hadn’t kissed Dean between the time Bee connected him with Dean and now.

 

Dean chuckled nervously and looked down for a moment. “We uh, we kissed, Cas. Remember?”

 

Shaking his head, Cas met Dean’s reluctant gaze. “No, Dean. We did not.”

 

Dean’s demeanor fell. The glint of hope in his eyes blinked away and his smile sank. “Oh,” he huffed with barely any tone. “I see. Okay.” His heart plummeting into his stomach, a sickening feeling washed over him as he came to terms with what this meant. Cas regretted that kiss. He wanted to act like it never happened. Dean had made a terrible mistake. And now he had to live with it forever.

 

Sucking in a breath and forcing himself to look into Cas’ eyes, he saw only a blank stare, as if Cas had missed everything that had just happened between them. Dean wasn’t one to give into hurt feelings, but he had to swallow the sob in his throat as he tried to unthink all the things he had so recently let into the open. As he searched Cas’ face for answers, he was met with nothing but confusion. Suddenly growing angry, Dean looked at the tablecloth and thought about what a bastard Cas was to let him say all those stupid things if he was just going to let him down later. Why would he do something like that?

 

Perhaps Dean had moved too quickly. It could be that Cas wanted the same thing he did, but not so soon after the Dean Cave moment. He decided to give Cas the benefit of a doubt and start the conversation over.

 

Dean gulped and reached for Castiel’s hand. “Look, man --” And he felt it.

 

_ And he felt it. _

 

The firmness of Cas’ bone, the dryness of his skin, the warmth of his blood, all sending signals to his brain that yes! You are touching! There is something under your hand!

 

He had been so deprived of touch that even this small amount of skin on skin felt overstimulating. Hand shaking, his eyes bounced back and forth between Cas’ face and hand. Cas kept observing him with quiet bewilderment, waiting for Dean to finish his sentence.

 

“Cas?” he breathed, his breath hitching in his throat. 

 

“Yes, Dean. It’s really me,” came the reply, Cas’ hand coming up from under Dean’s and clutching onto it.

 

The gentle squeeze calmed Dean’s trembling. “How are you here? You aren’t dead, are you?”

 

“No,” Cas replied, a smile creeping up his cheek. “Not even close. I’m just here visiting. Bee taught me how to create a psychic connection to you.”

 

Dean’s face scrunched up. “Who the hell is Bee?”

 

His smile dropped. Should he tell Dean about Bee? If he saw her face, he would surely flash back to their brief encounter in the abandoned missile base. That had the potential to get very complicated very quickly.

 

“Bee is a friend,” he assured Dean. “I’ll tell you about her later.”

 

Dean pouted, rocking back on the tablecloth. “Like ‘B’ in the alphabet?”

 

Cas rolled his eyes. “No, not like ‘B’ in the alphabet,” he muttered. Noticing his hand was still holding Dean’s, he twitched his thumb, almost drawing back. Should he stop holding his hand now? He wasn’t sure of proper protocol concerning hand-holding.

 

Sensing his unease, Dean turned his palm up, closing his hand around Cas’. “You don’t have to move it,” he assured. “Not if you don’t wanna.”

 

Pleasantly surprised at Dean’s willingness to touch him, Cas nodded and glanced down at their folded hands. Realizing this was likely coming from touch starvation and the shock of it being the  _ real  _ him, he excused it as nothing more than a need for attention after being in total isolation. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, after so many times of having his heart broken by the man right beside him.

 

“I tried talking to you at your bedside,” Cas spoke up, the quiet in which they had fallen comfortable and soothing.

 

“I tried talking to you, too,” Dean admitted. “It was coma-you, not the real you. I guess my mind made it up to keep me from being lonely.”

 

Cas nodded absentmindedly, his next question eating away at him. He feared either answer Dean was going to give, but he had to know. “Did you hear anything I said to you?” 

 

“No,” he answered obliviously, giving a slight shake of the head. Falling quiet, he wondered if, somehow, he had projected his thoughts right into the real Castiel’s brain. If so, he would be equal parts relieved and terrified. “Did you hear me? When I talked to you?”

 

“No,” Cas responded.

 

Dean felt disappointment wash over him as he let out a long sigh. A small part of him, the part that was still a little chicken shit, was glad for the chance of a do-over. The rest of him, however, was devastated. He had meant every word he said, even if it was spoken into the void of his comatose mind, but it left him emotionally exhausted. Coming to terms with a part of yourself you’ve repressed for a fourth of your life is no easy feat. Admitting out loud that he liked Cas the way he liked girls was admitting that he liked a dude -- which he always knew in his heart was normal and natural and fine, but he never considered it a possibility for himself.  _ Straight, but not narrow _ , he would tell himself, clueless to the hints he was giving himself that he was not, indeed, straight either.

 

“So what happens if we run into ‘coma me’?” Cas interrupted Dean’s thoughts.

 

Dean pushed the conversation to the back of his mind and smiled at Cas’ question. “Then I guess I’ll just have to kick his ass.” He waited for Cas’ reaction, which was a raised brow and mildly disapproving look. It was slightly intimidating and unsettlingly attractive, and Dean looked down to hide his reddening cheeks. “No, uh,” he recovered, “I actually think you sorta… replaced him? I was supposed to meet him here, and when you dropped down, I guess the real you took his place. Which is kinda nice, by the way, because I couldn’t feel Coma Cas.”

 

He had suspected as much, but then the realization hit him that Dean had made an effort to touch him prior to now. Dean had admitted it, himself. He had reached out and felt nothing. He  _ wanted  _ to feel Cas, and couldn’t. He had, oh my god --

 

He had kissed him.

 

“Dean?” Cas spoke softly, the reflection of the waterfall sparkling in his eyes. His heart was starting to pound, the realization slowly dawning on him. Dean had kissed him. Perhaps he knew it wasn’t really him, perhaps not, but in this very moment, it didn’t matter. Kissing was high on the list of things Cas was fairly certain Dean would never do with him, but one of the first things Dean blurted out once he landed in his psyche. They kissed. Maybe it wasn’t the real him, but it was damn close enough to send Cas’ head spinning.

 

“You… I… We…?”

 

“Yeah, we did,” Dean affirmed with a cough, giving slack in his hand, in case Cas didn’t want to hold it anymore. He wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. But Dean hoped with every fiber of his being that Cas would keep holding it.

 

Instead of removing his hand, Cas flexed his fingers downwards to intertwine them with Dean’s. The motion was telling and intimate, sending a bolt of desire through his bones. Dean’s knuckles bending over the skin between his fingers made him tingly all the way to his elbow, and he wondered if Dean felt it, too.

 

Waiting for a response but getting none, Dean decided to pry. “That okay?”

 

His heart swelling with joy, Cas tightened his grip and met his eyes with a twinkle that had been waiting to shine for ten long years. 

 

“It’s better than okay, Dean.”

 


	6. Mysterious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bee's inhuman properties spark unwelcome attention from a few interested parties. Castiel and Dean end their heartfelt visit with vital information in the war against Michael, but Cas makes a startling discovery in another intensive care room that will change everything. Can the team find a way to heal Dean before it's too late?

The bunker was home to many fascinating artifacts, most of which Jack was unfamiliar with, but that didn’t stop him from touching them and imagining them in action -- a full suit of armor, a taxidermied crocotta, a broken spear. After their home went without dusting for a few weeks, the family figured out it had been Dean that routinely cleaned every surface in the building. Now the job fell to Jack, who took advantage of the monotony by researching the relics he was dusting. He took his time finding out everything there was to know about each item, finding something new each time he cleaned his way through the same rooms. It was absolute heaven for anyone enamored by history and legend, which he quickly discovered he was.

 

Reaching up to dust the top of a book shelf, Jack snapped out of his deep thoughts on the sword on the shelf next to him as he heard Sam approaching. His dragon, which had taken a liking to small, shiny objects, enjoyed tagging along, and hid in Jack’s pocket with its’ newly found gold coin when he heard footsteps.

 

“Bee just called,” Sam informed him, his voice calm but chipper. “She taught Cas how to talk to Dean through his mind, so he’s staying at the hospital for a little bit longer.”

 

Jack beamed. “He’s in Dean’s head? This is great news!”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Sam agreed. “If Bee can teach you and me how to get in there, we can all talk to him.”

 

“Not only that,” Jack explained, “but maybe Dean can tell us more about Michael’s plan.”

 

Sam lit up. “You’re right! Any little bit he might know can help us.”

 

Jack’s mind wandered to Cas in the hospital, finally able to communicate with Dean after months of him being unreachable. Eventually, they would get Cas to ask Dean about any inner knowledge he might have as the Michael Sword, but today was not that day. Today was for them to talk about anything but the end of the world. After Dean losing Cas and Cas losing Dean, they needed this.

 

“I’m almost done here,” Jack changed the subject, lifting the duster. “After this, I thought I’d practice making something again.” Dust particles danced in the air as he finished off the bookshelf.

 

Sam raised his brows. “Oh, I didn’t know you kept going after you used the Impala to make Bee.”

 

“I’ve made lots of things,” Jack answered proudly.

 

“Should you be exerting that kind of energy? You need to work on healing all the way.”

 

“I know,” Jack replied, setting the duster down. “Don’t worry, I’m not wearing myself out. Actually, the more I practice, the quicker I get back to the level I was before. It’s like building muscle -- when you tear your muscles, your body repairs them with more tissue and adapts them to better handle further stress.”

 

Taken aback by Jack’s analysis, Sam nodded his approval and patted him on the back as he turned to leave. “Sounds like you’ve got it handled, then. I’m going to go make sure Rowena and Charlie have had food. Holler if you need anything.”

 

Jack smiled his goodbye, not wanting to bother Sam while he was attending to their guests. As his dragon crawled out of his pocket and rested on his shoulder, Jack closed his eyes and held his empty hand out. Closing his eyes, he visualized a shiny black rock, smooth and light. Hand shaking, he concentrated hard on the object he wished to create out of nothing, his breath heavy and beads of sweat starting to form on his brow. His head felt hot and his arm felt heavy. Letting the image swirl around three-dimensionally in his head, he thought of every scratch, bump, and dip the rock would have. Exhausted by the energy he released, he collapsed and slowly opened his eyes to view his trembling hand.

 

Nothing.

 

Sighing despairingly, Jack craned his neck to face his dragon, who was wholly unimpressed by his effort, nipping at the small gold coin instead.

 

“Oh well,” Jack muttered, resting his arm on his knee. “It was only the second time I’ve tried starting with nothing.” Deciding to go back to his original method of creating from a host, he raised himself to his feet and left the room with the intent to transform the duster tomorrow.

 

At the hospital, Cas knew he needed to give his mind a break and visit Dean another time, but this was the only place he wanted to be. Dean had livened up since they established the acceptability of hand holding, but Cas could tell he had something on his mind. Not wanting to push the issue, he remained content with their new boundaries and looked for the right moment to transition into a goodbye.

 

Dean had long since resorted to the picnic basket after all, having grown hungry after his nerves subsided.

 

“You know what’s great about being in a coma?” Dean said between chews, holding his sandwich.

 

“What’s that?” Cas asked. 

 

“Calories don’t count.” Smirking, Dean stuffed the bread into his mouth again. “I could eat like, four of these, and a whole pie, and the only thing that happens afterward is a really nice nap.”

 

At least Dean was being positive. Cas was certain he wouldn’t have been able to find many “great” things about lying comatose while the world around him fell apart. But he didn’t want to burden Dean with such things, especially now that he was so happy.

 

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Cas interjected.

 

Cheeks full of food, Dean nodded. “Found a scale in Sammy’s bathroom. He doesn’t mind. He’s here too, you know. Probably out jogging or drinking liquid lettuce.”

 

“Back home, Jack is doing very well,” Cas changed the subject. “His powers are growing. You’ll be so proud of him.”

 

“He’s a good kid,” Dean agreed. “I’m already proud of him. He kicked Michael’s ass, yet?”

 

“Working on that,” Cas assured him. “Sam is helping him in any way he can. Bobby and your mother are collecting intel until it’s safe enough to organize a formal attack.”

 

For the first time in a while, Dean allowed himself to think about the homefront. Here he was, stuffing his face, fantasizing about playing footsies with Cas, when he should be in the fight. Not that he could do anything in a coma, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty. Images flashed in his mind -- split seconds of consciousness when Michael allowed him to see through the fog of total body and mind control -- and although it wasn’t much, he had to help where he could.

 

“Cas,” Dean began hesitantly. “I don’t remember many things Michael did, ‘cause he had me under most of the time, but I do remember this one thing.”

 

Sitting up a bit straighter, Cas leaned toward Dean in keen interest. “Yes, Dean? Anything would be of tremendous help.”

 

“I had no control over my body, but I was watching it happening. Michael had a bunch of people sitting in a church, and they were taking communion, except for three of them. Everyone who drank the juice died of poisoning. Uh,” he paused, the horrible memory of pews of innocents dying in front of him hitting him. They were dead. He couldn’t stop it. And it was his body doing it. Michael forced him to do those things. He wasn’t in control of his own body.

 

“Dean, you don’t have to do this right now,” Cas comforted him.

 

“No no, I wanna. He uh,” Dean continued with a cough, “he handed the three people these tiny vials. They were supposed to wear them around their necks. He told them to use it on anyone who opposed them, and he would refill them.”

 

“What was in the vials?”

 

Dean swallowed. “Archangel grace.”

 

Cas sat silently, adding up every piece of info he knew. One of Bobby’s own had confirmed that Michael was killing his way through entire towns. When he was using Dean as his vessel, he could take his time, carefully planning each massacre and carrying out each detail painstakingly. Leaving three survivors with his own grace meant something significant, and if he could brainstorm with others in the field, they might figure him out before he did further damage.

 

“I need to tell the others,” Cas concluded, saddened that their visit had to leave on this note. “Dean, you must know that if I knew how to awaken you --”

 

“I know, Cas,” Dean said softly. He squeezed Cas’ shoulder and smiled as best as he could with the horrific scene still replaying before his eyes. “You’re gonna come visit again though, right?”

 

“Of course,” he promised. “We agreed to take turns watching over you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

Dean’s face lightened at the thought of Sam and Jack coming to visit him, too.

 

“Goodbye for now, Dean,” Cas gave his farewell, standing up from their spot on the tablecloth in front of the waterfall.

 

Following him up, Dean reached for his hand one more time and looked into his eyes. Cas was putting on a tough front, but Dean could tell he was just as upset about leaving as he was. Mouth opening to let out a sigh, Dean glanced down at Cas’ lips, the memory of his practice round a welcomed change from recent flashbacks. Holding his hand, he lost himself in the thought of actually feeling Cas’ lips on his. His scruff against his cheek. The warmth of his chest pressed against him. The fineness of his hair between his fingers. When the words he had been holding back came rushing to the forefront of his mind, he took a breath to let them all out, and blinked.

 

And Cas was gone.

 

Squinting his eyes shut, Cas felt himself surging back into the physical world around him. When he felt stable enough to open his eyes, he saw everything as he left it: monitors beeping, Dean steadily breathing, and Bee standing beside him, this time with a candy bar.

 

“How’d it go?” she asked casually while unwrapping the candy a little more.

 

Cas took a deep breath, exhaling sharply and trying to sift through all the lovely things he shared with Dean to find the parts that would be of help to the group. Nevertheless, he just couldn’t shake the incredible feeling he had when they touched or shared a lingering stare. Dean looked into his eyes like he was trying to see his true form, like he was searching him for his very essence. And Castiel looked back into his freckled smile like he could see his beautiful soul for exactly what it was. He could see right through the “90% crap” -- as Dean put it -- instead seeing selflessness, bravery, kindness, and a heart so completely full of love.

 

“Dean has a memory from his time under Michael’s control,” he informed, wanting nothing more than to tell Bee everything about the visit, but having no time.

 

“Far out,” Bee responded, finishing off her candy bar and stuffing the wrapper in her pocket. “You gonna share with the class?”

 

“Michael is distributing vials of his own grace to the people he doesn’t murder. He’s building some sort of super-charged army of grace-wielding humans.”

 

Bee wiped her hands on her pants and smacked the rest of the chocolate from the roof of her mouth. “Damn. Michael let Dean see that?”

 

“As a form of cruelty, yes. Michael never intended to have any other vessel besides Dean, but still, he was careful about what he allowed him to see. He wanted Dean to see that to remind him that he wasn’t in control.” Cas stood to his feet, compassion for Dean’s tortured state eating at him. “I wish I could help him. If this wasn’t induced by an archangel tearing through his body for weeks on end, I would be able to heal him.”

 

“Have you tried though?”

 

Cas turned to Bee curiously. “What?”

 

“Healing him. Have you actually tried it? Or are you just assuming?” She sat in the chair and crossed her ankles, getting comfy for her shift.

 

Although a bit offended at first, Castiel took a mental step back and realized she was right. He had never made a move to try using his angelic powers to heal him. Whether it was for fear of failure or his innate gift to make things more complicated than they needed to be, he was running all over creation looking for a solution without even considering that he could be part of it.

 

After stepping up to Dean’s bed, Cas gently laid two fingers on his forehead and sent a stream of grace into his body. Skeptical at first, he held back, only sending in a tiny vein, more as an experiment than anything else. But then he felt it. As he felt his grace leaving him, he felt Dean’s body resonate with it instead of the expected rejection. He was reacting positively to the grace. Widening the flow, Cas pushed more grace into him, noting the speed at which it was absorbed, like a watch battery trying to charge a generator.

 

After taking his hand off of Dean, Cas stepped back and faced Bee, the beginnings of a smile threatening to erupt.

 

“It’s working,” he said as calmly as he could. Bee smirked and gave a thumbs up in response. “I’m going to tell Sam and Jack about this, as well,” he decided. “Thank you, Bee. His body is taking in more grace than I can give right now, but it’s showing signs of responsiveness. This is a huge advancement in our mission.”

 

Leaving Bee to the rest of her night shift, Cas decided to visit Lucifer’s former vessel n the way out. As he entered his room, he noticed something different. Nick had a breathing machine strapped to his face. Cas rushed to the foot of the bed and picked up his clipboard.

 

Brain dead.

 

Nick was brain dead.

 

Dropping the clipboard, Cas stumbled out of the room and fell to his knees. Bile rising in his throat, he covered his mouth with a trembling hand and used the other one to grip the door frame. This empty vessel had been their beacon of hope, their only lead, the light to guide their way with Dean, and he was medically dead. His vital organs were just being kept “on” until medical staff could harvest them.

 

Pulling himself up, Cas forced himself back into the room, still nauseous, and placed his hand right above Nick’s heart. Nephilim grace had been what saved his life, so he felt around for the slightest hint of it. Gone. The grace had run out. Breathing heavily, Cas dialed for Sam with an unsteady hand and groaned with impatience at every ring.

 

“Cas?”

 

“Sam, call Bobby. Call Mary. Call everyone. I have information.”

 

“Okay, calm down, man,” Sam consoled him. “Everything alright?”

 

“No,” Cas grunted. “Nick is brain dead.”

 

Silence on the other end.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“I’m still in his room. Jack’s grace is all gone from his system. It appears your theory about needing the grace replenished is correct.”

 

Sam sighed from the other end. “Please tell me you’ve got some good news.”

 

“I do,” Cas replied. “I was able to transfer some grace to Dean as a sort of healing test. It didn’t work, of course. Michael’s damage is much too vast for a seraph to give a standard fix. But his body isn’t rejecting it, which means he  _ can  _ be healed.”

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Sam summarized. “Prolonged period without grace refill equals brain death. Does that mean with more grace, the vessel will heal all the way?”

 

Cas practically leapt out of the room, the new theory making far too much sense to be coincidence. “See what you can find. Pull every book on grace healing the men of letters have. Get everyone in that bunker reading. Dean’s grace supply isn’t going to last that much longer.”

 

Quickly poking his head into Dean’s care unit, Cas informed Bee of everything he and Sam had discussed and hurried off to the bunker. After the distinct flap of wings signalled his disappearance, Bee pulled a cassette out of her pocket and pinched the reels, starting the tape. It was pirated, but she couldn’t be bothered with the legality of the copy as long as it sounded good. The Black Sabbath cassette had been played to death, but the occasional bend in the tape added character.

 

Having dozed off sometime after she flipped the cassette, she jumped awake when a tiny hand touched her shoulder from behind. Dropping the tape and spinning around, she was met with Rowena, who was smiling mischievously. 

 

Something about her presence made Bee uneasy. “You my replacement?” She immediately regretted the obvious question.

 

“It was going to be Sam,” Rowena explained, “but after all the latest developments, he wanted to stay home a bit longer to rally his forces.”

 

Bee picked up the fallen cassette and tucked it away as discreetly as possible before standing up. “That’s probably best, anyway. Sam has been the one to stand up to the plate since all this started going down.”

 

“How do you know them?”

 

Ah, there it was. She was somewhat surprised Charlie didn’t pry, but she had been holding her breath for Rowena. “We go way back,” she answered vaguely.

 

“How far back?” the witch inquired, her voice going a little higher and lighter than necessary.

 

Bee could see through her thinly veiled nosiness, all too familiar with what happened to powerful information she acquired. The question was a trap. If she answered too directly, she would be saying too much; if she answered ambiguously, Rowena would just ask more questions.

 

“The day his parents brought him home from the hospital,” Bee began with a nostalgic sigh, “John would freak out every time they drove over a bump. He was sure he was going to break him. Mary tried to tell him ‘It’s fine, John. He’s strapped in.’ But John just…” She smiled as she trailed off, looking into the air like the scene was close enough to touch it. “He was a funny first time parent.”

 

“You’ve been looking out for the boys their whole lives?” she clarified, more awed than snoopy this time.

 

Bee nodded in response, moving over so Rowena would have space to sit, if she wanted it.

 

“You’re looking good on it!”

 

“So are you,” Bee countered with a smirk. 

 

Rowena sat down gracefully and crossed her legs. “So you know about me.”

 

“You’re a bit of a celebrity. It’s hard not to.”

 

The redhead made a light swatting motion and tilted her sharp nose. “Oh, you flatter me.” Pausing for a moment, she faced Bee and her face turned resolute. “Who are you, Bee? You aren’t human. Not really. I can sense it, dear. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. Between three hundred years of surviving as a witch and gallivanting about with those Winchesters, I’ve seen just about every creature there is to see. But I’ve never seen one of you. So tell me, darling, what are you?”

 

Knowing she could only dodge the question for so long, Bee thought for a moment before giving her answer. “I will tell you, Rowena. Seriously, I will. After we defeat Michael. Until he’s under control, I need the world to know as little about me as possible. It’s strategically the smartest thing to do.” She knew Rowena saw her playing the cassette with her fingers. She knew it was only a matter of time before she either charmed or spelled the truth out of Sam. Right now, in this moment, Rowena held all the cards, and Bee had to give the most satisfying answer possible while saying nothing at all. “I’m heading back. Call if you need anything.” 

 

With that, she strolled out of the hospital as calmly as possible. Hoping the witch wasn’t using her Wings of Titania spell to coast above her, Bee sucked in a deep breath in the parking lot and covered her thumping heart. She would be lying if she said Rowena didn’t frighten her on the regular, but she’d be damned if she ever showed weakness around her inquisitive eyes. 

 

Right before she started to run home, a hand clasped over her mouth from behind. Struggling against the assailant, Bee elbowed and kicked and made as much noise as she could, but the person holding her was unnaturally strong. Kicking all eight cylinders into high gear, she rammed both of them into a light pole, bending it in half and crushing a nearby car, but the hold on her remained. Knocked off her feet by a sudden bout of strength coming from behind, she tried crawling away but barely got two feet before her attacker flipped her over and put their foot to her throat.

 

“He warned me I’d have to use the grace,” the woman above her cooed. “He was right.”

 

Her vocal cords too crushed to ask questions, Bee took the best look she could in the dimly lit parking lot and saw a small vial hanging from the woman’s neck. It had a tiny bit of brightly glowing white light sloshing around at the bottom, which she assumed was the rest of the grace she had mentioned. Coughing from lack of air, Bee threw the woman’s foot off her and stood up, but froze in place when she saw two other people on either side of her, all with full vials ready at their lips, should she make any sudden moves.

 

“What do you want?” Bee demanded in between breaths.

 

“You’re being summoned by the almighty Michael,” the same woman replied. “He sent us to collect you. You’re coming with us.”

 

Bee’s shoulders slumped, her heart rate rising with the mention of that piece of shit. With no one to hear her and nowhere to run, she thought maybe Rowena spying her wouldn’t have been the worst thing, after all. Two hands gripping tight onto her shoulders, she jolted in defiance once before falling in line behind the leader. Her secrets had been for nothing. Michael had found her, and he was going to torture her until she told him every piece of information he wanted to know about the humans in opposition. Even worse, she already knew  _ he already knew _ she wasn’t going to tell him anything willingly. He would be breaking out the mental toys on her. Angels had ways of screwing with people's minds, literally.

 

Knowing she had very little time left before being under his indefinite control, Bee tried to think of ways to alert Sam and Castiel. This wasn’t Hansel and Gretel and she had no bread crumbs; no one was in vocal range; Rowena hadn’t seen which way she headed as she exited the building; it would be a while before someone would call her, wondering where she was; and she had no way of reaching out to anyone.

 

Except, she did.

 

Closing her eyes, she reached as far inward as she could, picturing Dean on his bed with ugly floors, white walls, and that distinct hospital smell. She delved into his mind, roping herself further and further in, taking each new step as it paved itself. Swirling images danced across the blank space, like distorted projections, and she latched onto one and kept hold of it as it expanded around her.

 

She landed with a thud in the bunker garage. Eyes darting back and forth, she quickly deduced that she was currently alone. She looked down at her hand and saw that this time, she was there, in the flesh. Mind projection was so weird, but she tried not to overthink it. Upon hearing the loud bunker door squeak open, she spun around to face a very perplexed Dean. He was looking straight at her, which meant, to her immense relief, he could see her too.

 

“Uh,” he drawed out, visibly shaken and very much not in the mood for any trouble. “Who the hell are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, LISTEN UP. This is where it starts getting interactive...
> 
> There will be smut soon. Not as soon as you might want -- it's tagged "slow burn" for a reason -- but I'm getting to the point where I need to plan the specifics of each smut scene. Without giving away spoilers, I will say that Cas and Dean eventually work their way up to topping and bottoming. SO. YOUR MISSION. SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT. Is to vote:
> 
> Bottom!Cas/Top!Dean  
> OR  
> Top!Cas/Bottom!Dean  
> ?
> 
> Drop a comment to vote!!


	7. Lonely Street of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean relives the horrors of being the Michael Sword in a recurring flashback, after which he runs into a vaguely familiar face who leaves him with a message for Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter summary: Dean remembers fucked up shit and masturbates to thoughts of Cas.

(Listen to [Here I Go Again](https://youtu.be/oohFGOmcxuo))

 

_ It was Dean’s body. But the far offish stare was too cold, the laugh too dark, and the strides far too methodical. It was Dean’s face, but the man looking back at Cas wasn’t him. The usual glint in his eyes when he said the angel’s name was gone, not to mention the out of place head tilt Michael gave when Cas looked up at him with begging eyes.  _

 

But the angel was the last thing on Michael’s mind as he burst through the door of that old old church in the sticks of Indiana, proudly wearing his prized vessel like a medal of honor. Blood still on his knuckles from beating Castiel senseless, the gloating archangel strode onto the platform to face a room full of willing participants of his latest cleanse. Humans in this universe were so eager to please, especially when one embellished promises of a better earth. 

 

“We are gathered in this place,” Michael announced, “because you and I want the same thing. Every person sitting in these pews has someone that will inherit the world you give them.” He motioned across the room, his mannerisms convincing, but unnatural looking on Dean Winchester’s body. “They will inherit a holier world. A better world. The world you sacrifice yourself to provide them.” 

 

Some of the congregation nodded in agreement, others raised their hands while a tear trickled down, and some whispered amen. Most sat still, silently staring at the communion cups in their hands. Michael raised his own unpoisoned juice before he continued, and everyone with a cup sat to attention with theirs.

 

“Only those with my grace will walk the earth. This is my plan. Your children and children’s children will know this world. They will know no fear, for all sin will be wiped clean. And those with my grace will lead them in my ways.” The three chosen ones, scattered throughout the assembly and the only ones with no poison, glanced over at each other wordlessly. “With this sacred knowledge, take and drink.”

 

As the people tipped their cups to sip their deaths, Michael rolled back the curtain on Dean’s mind so no matter how deeply he was dreaming, he would see this. No matter where he turned or if he tried to shut it out, this moment would be there, and he would be haunted by its memory forever. Within moments, dozens and dozens of men and women were grabbing their throats, coughing at the sting of poison quickly shutting their bodies down. Gasping for breath, they fell limp one by one, the room slowly becoming unnervingly quiet.

 

After every poisoned victim slumped motionless over a chair or curled up on the floor, the three survivors stepped over the dead and gathered in front of the platform. Michael handed out small vials, filled with grace that glowed white hot. Once again closing Dean off from being able to observe his body’s actions, Michael gave them further instruction.

 

“Wear these around your necks. Use them on only to defend yourself against those who oppose you and pray to me afterward, and I will come refill it. I’m going now to find more who are worthy like you. Wait for me, and I will gather unto myself every human who bears my grace.”

 

After dismissing his three new followers, Michael exited the church and began walking toward his next destination. His long coat flapped behind him as he mentally mapped out where he was going next, the success of his campaign puffing up his ego. It was going so smoothly, he might even stop in town to buy a new hat.

 

“Dean!” a feminine voice pierced from behind the barn on his right. Looking in the direction of the noise, he found himself facing a blonde woman who looked cross. His eyes bore into her like hot pokers, displeased that someone would dare interrupt him on his peaceful walk, especially if they were going to use his vessel’s name.

 

The expression on the woman’s face changed from determined to exposed. “Dean, can you hear me? It’s me, it’s Mom.”

 

Huffing out a chuckle that in no way resembled Dean, the archangel shook his head. “I just had someone else call me that. I must have one of those faces.”

 

“Not funny, Michael,” Mary retorted. “If you don’t let me speak with Dean, I’ll reach him myself.”

 

Slowly shaking his head, he flashed a sadistic grin and began wondering just how badly he should injure the boy’s mother. Perhaps he won’t kill her. After all, she gave life to the Michael Sword.

 

“I’m afraid he won’t hear you, madam. He can’t hear anyone.”

 

-FAST FORWARD-

 

A familiar, unwelcome weightless feeling overtook Dean. His picnic with Cas had included eating so much he could kick himself, after which he decided to sleep off most of the digestion pains. Certain that the visit would give him good dreams, he nodded off with minimal effort, trying to make their gentle touches and happy words the last things he thought about. 

 

It didn’t work. Instead, he was reliving the drifting sensation he experienced when Michael shoved him out of the driver’s seat and deep into the recesses of his own mind. Everything happened in eerie quiet and slow motion, like he was floating through the vast blackness of space. He was utterly alone. Stroking through the air did nothing to deter his course. His scream was completely silent in the soundless vacuum. Although there was only void, he felt like it was slowly closing in on him. Tears of fear filling his eyes, Dean squinted his eyes shut and wrapped his hand around his neck in a protective stance. He brought his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible as he waited for the weightlessness to subside.

 

Feeling himself land on his back, he gasped for breath and shot his eyes wide open. He was in his bed again. Relieved that the nightmare didn’t last as long this time, Dean slid his legs off the bed, glancing at the clock as he stood up. Six hours had passed. Time passed strangely in coma dreams. Tired of being alone, he wandered down the hall and into Sam’s room, where he found his brother field stripping his Taurus.

 

Turns out, Coma Sam was just as meticulous about his pistol’s parts as the real Sam. “Hey,” Dean grunted, sleepiness in the back of his throat making his voice lower than usual.

 

“Dean,” Sam replied, reaching for something on the bed he had thrown too far. “Hand me that mag, will ya?”

 

“Hello to you, too.” He tossed the magazine within arm’s reach and plopped down on the bed extravagantly.

 

“Hey!” Sam fussed. “Now all the parts are rolling everywhere. You’re gonna make me lose my spring!”

 

Dean threw his head back and laughed. Seeing Sam get all up in the air about his perfectly laid out field strip was always going to be hilarious. He bounced a little more for good measure, every part of Sam’s gun sliding around the comforter.

 

“Fuck off, Dean,” Sam snapped as he shoved his brother.

 

Having chased off the sickening feeling by terrorizing Sam, Dean tumbled off the bed and left chuckling. Not in the mood to return to his room, he mosied into the kitchen and pulled out a beer. After downing half the bottle in one swig, Dean rubbed his eyes, trying to push out the image that kept creeping back in. A church full of people, emptying their cups all at once, and one by one, falling lifeless. Damn. He had done some killing in his time, but this? This was some Jim Jones shit.

 

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered to himself in a chant. “Not your fault. It wasn’t you. That wasn’t on you.” Except, it was. He had said yes to Michael. Hell, he had practically given him a sales pitch. He had buttered him up and basically begged him to ride him into the sunset.

 

_ What if you had your sword? _

 

Dean tipped the bottle up again, drinking the rest and dropping the glass into the trash. The Michael Sword. His destiny.  _ This  _ was his destiny? Stomping around killing people, lying comatose who knows where, never seeing his family again? What a shitty destiny. Fuck that. He should be ripping Michael’s ribcage out of his ass by now. Who did that bastard think he was, fucking with Dean Winchester? He had to know Dean was going to come for him once he came to.

 

If he came to.

 

Ripping another bottle cap off with his bare hands, Dean sipped another beer and leaned forwards against the counter. And he thought of Cas. He thought about how much he wanted to hold his hand again. Shit, he’d hold his hand right in front of Sam, he didn’t even care anymore. Dean also wanted to kiss Cas again, and not like the fake one at the bathroom. He wanted to smash his mouth against Cas’ lips, suck on them, taste him, explore every inch of his mouth. He wanted Cas to cradle his jaw and push his chin up with his thumb as he nipped at Dean’s neck. Cas could make him his and he would thank him for it. He wanted Cas so badly it physically hurt.

 

Shifting against the counter, he glanced down to discover a raging boner straining against his jeans. He raised a brow as he checked behind him for any sign of Sam. He was probably still collecting pieces of his gun that Dean had scattered around his mattress, so fuck it. He was going to jack off to Cas.

 

An unbutton here, a zip there, and he dropped his jeans enough to free his dick from his boxer briefs. It throbbed with the need for release. God, had it been that long since he saw any action? He moaned the moment he grabbed himself and gave a long stroke. This would be so much better if it were Cas. He imagined it: Cas hovering over him on the bed, eyes fully focused on the task at hand, listening to every sound Dean would make, striving to bring out more. When a bead of precome oozed out, he made full use of it to lubricate himself and engaged both hands to work over his length.

 

He wondered how big Cas’ cock was. Never in his life had he felt the urge to suck another man off, but dammit he really wanted Cas’ cock in his mouth. He wanted his mouth to be used to make Cas completely undone, a far cry from the perfectly put together angel he was in public. He would gently bite at his inner thighs, play with his balls, lick the tip until he was shaking; he just thought of everything he liked and imagined himself doing it to Cas.

 

Now, Cas giving him a blowjob? That would be a sight to behold. Distributing more precome along his shaft, Dean grunted as he pictured himself fucking Cas’ face, blue eyes looking up at him with adoration. His mouth would be so warm, wet, soft. Dean was thrusting erratically into his fist now, blood pumping into his cock and ferociously building to the climax. Imagining the back of Cas’ throat swallowing the excess of his cock was enough to make his head spin. Letting out a long, low groan, he squeezed himself one last time before come sputtered all over his hands. 

 

Dean put all his weight on the counter, a blubbering mess in the wake of his long-needed orgasm. Backing off to catch his breath, he noticed a bit of his spend on the edge of the counter, which he wiped off with a paper towel after he washed his hands. Tucking himself back into his pants, he snatched up the half-warm beer and continued drinking, sated now that he had gotten his mind off unpleasant things and taken care of himself in one go.

 

On the last swig, he heard a  _ swoosh  _ from somewhere else in the bunker. It sounded exactly like the  _ swoosh  _ that Cas had ridden in on, so he smiled to himself at the thought of him returning so soon. But wait. Weren’t Sam and Jack supposed to come visit, too? He shouldn’t be back yet. What if something was wrong, and Cas had to come tell him? Dean found himself hustling toward the origin of the noise: the bunker garage.

 

Throwing the whiny, heavy door open, he marched inside to find not Cas, not Jack, and not Sam, but… Hey, he had seen her somewhere before.

 

“Uh, who the hell are you?” he demanded.

 

“You know your dad recorded right over Children of the Grave?” the stranger conversed, ignoring his question.

 

“What?” he winced.

 

She reached in her pocket and waved a cassette tape between her middle and index fingers. “Black Sabbath. Master of Reality. I think he forgot what he put on here. When Embryo ends, it goes right into…” She snickered, clearly tickled pink. “It goes right into a recording of you saying some baby talk. And he swore up and down it was your first word. I can’t make this shit up, man.”

 

“Okay lady,” Dean warned, pointing a finger and slowly approaching. “I need you to tell me exactly who the hell you are, or I swear to god --”

 

“You deadass are like, ‘Hnnnngh. Hnnnggghhhh.’ And John’s like, ‘He’s sayin’ mama!’ And Mary’s in the background like, ‘John no’ --”

 

“Okay, shut up,” Dean interjected, swiping the tape out of her hands.

 

“You’re actually right, we don’t have time for any of this,” Bee admitted. “Okay, here’s the low down. I’m Bee. I taught Cas how to visit you in your coma. You’re welcome. Moving on --”

 

“Wait, you’re Bee?” Dean clarified. “You… I remember you… I think. You were all… beaten up. Wait. Did I do that?”

 

“Michael did, actually,” she dismissed. “Anyway, I’ve been captured by three of Michael’s minions. I have no idea where they’re taking me. I had no time to call for help, so I’m jumping into your head real quick so you can pass the word on to Cas.”

 

Dean’s mouth moved a bit as she talked, trying to make sense of everything. “I -- I’m not sure when Cas is coming back next. Who’s watching me now?”

 

“Rowena.”

 

“Oh wonderful,” Dean groaned. “Does she know how to bust into my grapefruit?”

 

“You think I’d teach her that?”

 

“I don’t know; I don’t know who  _ you are _ !”

 

“I’m Bee!”

 

“Yes, I know, but who are you exactly?”

 

Bee suppressed a laugh. “Not important, Mr. ‘Dubs. All you need to know right now is that I’m about to get tortured by a pissed-off archangel.”

 

“What’s he want with you?”

 

Bee swallowed, avoiding eye contact. “That’s a bit hard to explain.”

 

“The injuries I gave you,” Dean contemplated, looking down at his free hand. “I really beat the crap outta you. How are you alive?” 

 

Bee could tell her captors were almost at their destination. “I told you, you don’t need to know any of that right now. Just tell Cas what I told you.”

 

“You were the one that told me to kick him out!” Dean realized, eyes widening. His pointing finger bounced at each word. “And then you shoved grace down my throat. Wait. Are you an angel?”

 

“No, that was Jack’s grace, and it’s keeping you alive right now,” she explained quickly, time rapidly running out. “Dean, listen to me. You are going to survive this. We’re doing everything we can to help you. But when the time comes, you’re going to have to fight like hell.”

 

Dean glanced down at the cassette, inspecting the handwriting on both sides. “How do you even have this?”

 

Bee shook her head, backing off. Dean took a step forward, taking on the offensive in pursuit of answers.

 

“What does Michael want from you, huh? Information?” he dug. “What do you know about me?”

 

When Bee guffawed, Dean took two long-legged steps forward and got right up into her face. “How do you know that stuff about my parents? How did you manage to get inside my freakin’ brain?” His eyes darted directly behind her, his face turning ruthless. “Where the hell is my car?”

 

Bee slowly tilted her head back and saw that its usual parking space was indeed empty. Balancing between this realm and another, she heard her captors talking amongst themselves about who had the key to the church cellar. She turned back to Dean and shrugged.

 

“Well, would you look at the time!” she exclaimed, looking at a watch that was not on her arm.

 

“Hey,” he gritted, grabbing onto her arm as she tried to back away. 

 

“Your time is gonna come, Mr. ‘Dubs,” she promised, yanking her arm away and letting herself drift out of his psyche. “Be ready to fight your way back.”

 

Lunging toward her, Dean reached out with grabby hands, only to face-plant onto the hard concrete floor. She had vanished. Irritated beyond belief, he pounded the floor once before pushing himself onto his knees. And he flashed back to a dim, cold room with concrete everything. He remembered a pile of junk at the front of the room. He remembered water puddles and blood splatters. The blood was hers. He was looking down at her with a crowbar in his hand.

 

Why was he holding a crowbar, anyway? He dug deeper into the memory and remembered his dream state. He was at the beach, watching helplessly as an invisible force dug a long, deep gnash into the frame.

 

And he heard her screaming as he dragged the crowbar through her flesh.

 

Irate, he caught a glimpse of the true culprit, Michael, appearing on the beach as his old vessel from apocalypse world. He smirked at Dean before returning to pounding the car into a gnarly pile of bent up metal. Strike after strike, he never let up, only egged on by the cries of agony.

 

And he saw himself with the crowbar, hammering into her, hook end down. Over, and over, and over. Each swing a promise of more pain than before. It was him. Dean was delivering those blows.

 

_ Michael did, actually.  _

 

He assaulted Michael with all the fury of a pent-up hurricane, latching onto him and taking the boost of grace to cast him out with vengeance. The world around him collapsed, and the last thing he remembered before the coma took him was feeling someone breaking his fall, supporting his body as it fell limp.

 

_ I taught Cas how to visit you in your coma. _

 

Thinking back to the moment Sam surfaced long enough to throw himself, Lucifer, and Michael into the cage, Dean recalled Sam later clarifying that it was memories of them as brothers that gave him that “glitch in the matrix.” It was memories of Cas that brought Dean back, but Cas wasn’t the one who snapped him out the haze. It would’ve had to be someone who knew him longer. Someone like his mom. But that wasn’t her, either. Perhaps she tried. Perhaps they had to find someone who knew him even longer.

 

_ I’ve been captured by three of Michael’s minions. _

 

Michael wanting to capture her was surely a tactical strategy. She was far too resilient to be human. She was like solid steel.

 

_ I’m not alright. Not at all. But neither are you, that much I know. I’ll let you get back to work. _

 

Those words echoed from so far back, he almost forgot his brother’s voice used to be that high. Their father had just died, and Dean was holding it together so well… until his jackass little brother had to come along and pick at the scab. So he took up a crowbar, lifted it above his head, and…

 

Dean glanced at the empty parking spot, his head suddenly feeling light. He lost his footing, stumbling to the ground and retching up his lunch, spewing onto the floor before he could grab a nearby cleaning bucket. Hands shaking in the wake of his nausea, he wiped his mouth and dry heaved once before his stomach was calm enough for him to breath normally.

 

“No fucking way,” he gasped, rubbing his forehead in disbelief. “What the actual fuck. That can’t be… Oh my god.”

 

* * *

 

The bunker was abuzz with high energy; Sam had everyone on research duty, which wasn’t as quiet as one would expect. Every few seconds, someone would barrel through with a stack of more books, with the occasional thump of one hitting the floor. Occasionally, one of them would shout a question to no one in particular, answered by whoever had the answer in their respective source. Typing, coughing, and impatient sighing littered the tense air. Clunking into the War Room with no regard for noise, Castiel locked his phone and set it on the table by Sam.

 

“Still no answer from Bee,” said Cas worriedly. “Who’s on patrol at the hospital next?”

 

“Charlie,” Sam answered without having to think. “Did you call Rowena?”

 

“Yes. The last she saw of her was when she left the ICU.”

 

Sam swallowed, his lip twitching with concern. “Why would she just disappear?”

 

“I don’t think she did. I think Michael might have found her.” Cas picked his phone back up to type a text. “I’m going with Charlie to the hospital to see if Bee left anything behind that might lead us to Michael. I’ll send Rowena back here once we arrive. Perhaps she could do a locator spell.”

 

Sam set his book down and tapped it with his fingers. Getting up, he called for Bobby, who responded by poking his head around the corner of the library with three books under his arm.

 

“Bobby, does Michael have any safehouses in the area?” Sam asked.

 

“I’ll ask my local militia,” came the answer with a short nod. Bobby disappeared behind the corner again and after a few seconds of inaudible chatter, the constant typing that accounted for most of the noise stopped. Rushing into the War Room came a shocked and concerned Charlie.

 

“Hey, what’s going on?” she shot at Sam, who had just picked up his book.

 

“Bee is missing,” he explained. “She never came home after her shift. You and Cas are going to the hospital together to see what you can piece together.”

 

“Well what are we waiting for?” Charlie urged, clutching onto her laptop case and turning towards Castiel. “Let’s go!”

 

The angel slipped his phone into his trench coat pocket. “Charlie, I know you care for Bee. We all do. But I’m going to have to ask you to not let your emotions interfere. Remember, one of us is supposed to be watching Dean at all times.”

 

“Then you watch him,” she retorted. “I can’t let her get hurt. I’d never forgive myself.”

 

“What exactly do you mean by ‘emotions’?” Sam piped up, realizing he missed something.

 

Castiel and Charlie shared a knowing look. He saw the way she was beaming after their time at the gun range. He saw how she stole glances at Bee when she thought no one was looking, unable to hide the smiles her mere presence caused. She wouldn’t stop talking about her after they interacted, even if it was just greeting each other in passing. He saw the twinkle in her eye, and he knew. He knew because it was the same way he looked at Dean.

 

“Okay, so I might have a tiny little crush,” Charlie confessed. “But shouldn’t that just motivate me more?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Cas affirmed. “I just don’t want it to cloud your judgment. Stay alert. Stay vigilant.”

 

“You guys have got this,” Sam encouraged, readying himself to leave the room for more books. “Call me with any updates.”

 

“Alright, beam us up, Scottie,” Charlie directed. “I have a damsel to save.”


	8. If You Leave Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working against the clock with Sam and company, Jack finds a way to wake Dean up; but is the price too great?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for following along! Leave a comment and let me know what you think of the story so far:)

If you leave me now you'll take away the biggest part of me

No baby please don't go

And if you leave me now you'll take away the very heart of me

No baby please don't go, no I just want you to stay

 

A love like ours is love that's hard to find

How could we let it slip away?

We've come too far to leave it all behind

How could we end it all this way?

When tomorrow comes and we both regret

The things we said today

 

-Chicago, If You Leave Me Now

 

Immediately noticing the pole-crushed car in the hospital parking lot, Castiel and Charlie rummaged through the debris, hoping for clues. Early morning light peeped over the trees as Charlie swept through the grass near the fallen pole. She snatched something out of the brush and motioned for Cas.

 

“It says ‘Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx’,” she read. 

 

“She was definitely here, then,” Cas confirmed. Bee would never leave that lying around on purpose, so it must’ve fallen out in the struggle. “That’s the trigger object we used when Dean was still possessed by Michael.”

 

“Why did Bee have it?” came the logical next question.

 

Cas pursed his lips, the secret pointless to keep anymore. If Michael had her, it was only a matter of time before he figured out her identity and exploited it. At this point, she would be better off with Charlie knowing, especially if she was the one doing the rescue. “Jack used his new powers to create her.”

 

“I thought he could only transform something out of stuff that already exists,” she shrugged, tucking the mixtape into her laptop bag.

 

“Yes,” he confirmed, “he did. He made her out of the Impala.”

 

Charlie became very still, her eyes widening at this bombshell of information. “He turned the car into a person… to get inside Dean’s head?” Visibly disturbed, she furrowed her brows and bit her cheek. “I’m sorry, that’s just…”

 

Cas gave her a moment, but she trailed off without finishing. “It wasn’t ideal, but it was our only option, Charlie. Jack saw his opportunity and he took it.”

 

“But she’s a  _ person! _ ” Charlie countered, unsure if she was getting her point across with her finite words and hand gestures. “You can’t just drop that on a person and expect them to be okay with it! He made her, he gave her life. And for what? As a  _ plot device? _ ” She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t think you understand how wrong this is.”

 

“Charlie,” Cas acknowledged, putting his hand up in surrender. “Everything about the Michael situation is wrong. Nothing has turned out like we anticipated, but we still have a chance at victory. We get Dean out of his coma, we find Bee, defeat Michael, and  _ then  _ we can figure out the rest.”

 

Charlie huffed out a laugh, void of all humor, and shook her head. “The rest? She isn’t ‘the rest’, Cas. She’s a living, breathing being. She might not be human, but that doesn’t make a difference to me.” She walked past Cas, knocking him with her shoulder. “You handle Dean, I’ll take care of Bee. Apparently I’m the only one who does, anyway.”

 

Thoroughly chastised, Castiel silently watched Charlie stomp off to continue searching the grounds. The situation was complicated. No part of this operation was ideal, but it didn’t change the guilty stab in his gut when he imagined how very out of place Bee must feel. He knew the feeling quite well. With a remorseful sigh, Cas made his way into the hospital, trying to clear his mind enough to build a reliable connection to Dean.

 

Once in the ICU, Cas excused Rowena and brought the chair close enough to Dean to hold his hand while sitting. Physical touch empowered the path into his mind, and soon he found himself spiraling into the bunker garage, where Dean was sitting emotionless with a pail and a splatter of throw up nearby.

 

“Dean,” Cas greeted hastily.

 

The man sitting on the concrete floor snapped out of his daze and stared at Cas with an unreadable expression. “Michael’s got Bee,” Dean mumbled, ears still ringing from being sick and sitting in an uncomfortable position for so long.

 

“So it’s as we feared,” Cas concluded. “Wait, how do you know?”

 

“‘Cause she was just here, Cas,” Dean spat impatiently.

 

Cas crouched down to Dean’s level. “Charlie is out looking for her now. Michael caught wind of her abilities when --”

 

“When I beat the shit outta her,” Dean finished. He glared at Cas. “I know what she is, man. I just don’t know how. Or why.”

 

“Jack is learning to harness powers he never knew he possessed. One of them is creating, but only from a host, until his power is at full strength again.”

 

The gag reflex hit Dean once more, but he covered his mouth with a fist and closed his eyes.

 

Cas made an attempt to console him. “She has nephilim grace, she can turn back any time.”

 

“No dude, that’s not why I’m upset,” Dean replied, opening his eyes and holding his hands up in defense. “It’s just a lot to take in, okay?”

 

Nodding, Cas helped Dean up and back into the Coma Bunker. He would take him to the Dean Cave. Maybe a movie would help him unwind.

 

At the  _ real  _ bunker, Jack could hear Bobby yelling from across the room, “Yeah, he’s got a place over near the city limits.”

 

“‘City’ limits? Lebanon’s population is like, two hundred people and a dozen cows,” Sam shouted back.

 

“You know what I mean, ya idgit.”

 

“I’ll call Charlie!”

 

Jack laughed lightly at the exchange, skimming any pages that bore the words “grace” or “angel.” The book was old and heavy, and smelled of years of slowly rotting paper. It was glorious. Thankful that Bobby’s militia had intel on a safehouse that might hold Michael’s current following and prisoner, Jack breathed easier and continued researching.

 

The words “archangel” and “possession” caught his eye and he tuned the rest of the world out as he read. Rereading the paragraph over and over, making absolutely sure he wasn’t imagining things, he grew more and more excited until he shot up and darted into the War Room.

 

“Sam!” he exclaimed, clutching onto the book as if the very words might fly off the page if he loosened his grip.

 

“Yeah, Jack?” Sam replied, shaken from his peaceful skimming.

 

“I found something!” Several of Bobby’s people and Rowena had gathered around them, fully invested in hearing the latest discovery. “This first part talks about how angel grace can heal all physical and most supernatural maladies,” he explained. “Now that’s true in general, but in the case of archangel possession, the damage is much deeper, because the possession affects every cell in the human’s body.” Sam nodded, encouraging him to continue. “The second part of the paragraph says that when an angel uses its powers to heal, that grace is concentrated only on the cells in need of regeneration, which is usually a couple thousand, at most. If someone needs every cell in their body healed, that’s roughly thirty seven trillion cells. Take the damage inflicted from an archangel into account, and you’re multiplying that exponentially. Not even bringing someone back from the dead requires that much power. It’s too much grace expended. It would kill any angel who tries.”

 

Sam palmed his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “So there’s a way, but it calls for the death of the angel administering the grace.”

 

“Exactly,” Jack affirmed. “When an angel is depleted of his grace, he becomes human. It happened to Cas, and it mostly happened to me, minus a tiny bit Lucifer left in me. But even if someone takes ‘all’ of an angel’s grace out, there’s a trace amount left. Like when an angel leaves its vessel and a tiny bit is left behind. It’s not enough to notice, but it keeps them alive. This healing procedure requires every little bit of grace left, which will kill the angel.”

 

Sam sat quiet for a moment, the people surrounding him whispering amongst themselves. “Okay, but does it have to all be from one angel?” he challenged. “Dean and I took part in a spell like that, where it required the blood of the Men of Letters. It demands enough blood to kill someone, but we both pitched in and it worked. Maybe we could get a few angels in heaven to volunteer.”

 

Jack’s eyes jumped all over the page, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s very specific in that it requires an angel to die. Besides, Cas told me the angels in heaven are pretty much stranded there if they want to keep the place going. Plus, they’re lying as low as possible now that Michael has sided with humans. They want to remain a neutral party.”

 

Throwing his hands in the air, Sam tilted his head back and sighed. “Then how the hell are we supposed to heal Dean?”

 

The nephilim looked down at the page once more, closed the book, and made eye contact with Sam. “I’ll do it.”

 

“Jack, no.”

 

“I have to do this. I can’t let anyone else get hurt,” he said resolutely. “Dean sacrificed himself to save you and me. You offered to die for me. And right now, your brother is gone. He’s been possessed, he’s lying in a coma, and Bee is being tortured. I can’t let this keep happening!”

 

“Please, Jack. Listen to me. It’s not your fault. Maybe if you were up to full power, you’d have a shot at surviving, but you’re not.”

 

But he had made up his mind. “I know, but we don’t have time to sit around and wait for that. The grace in Dean is going to fade soon. I’m going, and nobody is going to stop me.” He backed away so no one could grab onto him before he flew off. “I love you, Sam. I love you, and Dean, and Cas, and your mom, and all of you. I need to do this. Goodbye.”

 

And with that, the flutter of wings swept him off to the hospital.

 

Dean’s demeanor had improved since they sat down shoulder to shoulder to watch TV. Cas was happy to cheer Dean up, even if just for a little while. He needed to call Sam about Charlie taking off by herself to rescue Bee, but for now, he was content to remain at Dean’s side. Soon enough, their sitting turned into Dean laying his head on Cas’ lap, which eventually became both of them lying on the couch, Dean facing away from him. 

 

“Cas, you awake?”

 

“Yes, Dean. I don’t require sleep.”

 

Trying not to fall off the couch, Dean turned carefully to face Cas and opened up for the first time since they left the garage. “Are they gonna be able to find a way to wake me up?”

 

Cas’ hand, which had been cradling Dean’s arm, wrapped around him, tugging him closer. “Yes, of course. We have a theory, but they’re doing further research  back at the bunker to be absolutely sure it’ll work.”

 

Dean buried his face in Cas’ neck. He smelled nice. “What’s your theory?” 

 

“Your body absorbs grace unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Sam and I believe if you receive enough of it, your body and mind will begin to heal.”

 

“How much of it do I need?”

 

Cas moved his mouth against the hairs on Dean’s head. “A lot.”

 

Dean considered the awful condition he must be in to require so much healing power, and then got distracted by the fact that Cas’ clothing was taking too much room on the couch.

 

“Cas?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Take off that fucking trench coat.”

 

Sitting up, Cas shrugged the coat off and tossed it onto the floor. Dean shot up and started tugging at his suit coat. 

 

“This too.”

 

Silently complying, Cas removed it and laid it on top of his trench coat. Still not satisfied, Dean loosened his tie and reached for the buttons on his dress shirt. Taking the hint, Cas unbuttoned the rest and discarded his shirt and tie, leaving him in his pants and a plain white t-shirt.

 

When Cas looked up for approval, Dean had momentarily forgotten how to form words. His eyes were on Cas’ chest, covered by the shirt but faintly showing the color of his skin underneath. The t-shirt also outlined his muscular chest, memories of his perfectly sun-kissed body flooding his memory. He reached out and barely grazed him with his fingertips, feeling the rise and fall of his pecs through thin fabric. 

 

Realizing that he had gotten distracted, Dean glanced up at Cas and noticed the man he’d been examining was silently observing with the beginnings of a smile. “There,” Dean gulped, running his hand over his shoulder. “Isn’t that better?”

 

Cas nodded and laid back down, followed closely by Dean, who faced him so he could lay his hand on Cas’ chest. Cas liked the feeling, so he held Dean’s hand over him so he’d stay. Being touched like this made him feel like his protector, his shelter, a constant in a life full of unpredictability. 

 

Dean didn’t want to miss a second of this, but falling asleep in Cas’ arms turned out to be one of the easiest things he’d ever done. When he fell asleep, it was deep and restful, without a single nightmare. When he awoke, he was saddened to find Cas gone. Turning around to face the TV, Dean changed the channel and stared into space, not at all interested in what was on. 

 

Jack’s voice had torn Castiel out of Dean’s head. Although initially glad he had brought word, his face grew somber as Jack explained the conundrum. 

 

“What do you mean, every last bit of grace?” Cas asked, pacing around the hospital room. “Giving up an angel’s reserves, the small amount they need to stay alive —”

 

“Would kill them, yes. I know,” Jack interrupted. “That’s why I’m here.”

 

Cas slowly shook his head in disapproval. “Absolutely not. You are worth so much more than your abilities, Jack. Just because you can heal him, doesn’t mean it’s what you have to do. No, my son. You are not going to die for Dean.”

 

Jack’s tone turned vicious. “Then who is?”

 

Holding Dean’s hand and touching his head, Cas positioned himself for one last goodbye before the healing process. “Me,” he answered. 

 

Dean jumped in surprise as Cas abruptly appeared, but sitting on top of him on the couch. Shimmying out from under him, Dean stood and searched his face. Cas followed him up and stared soulfully into his eyes, like there was so much left to be said, even after he said what he came there to say. 

 

“Dean,” Cas began, placing his hand on his forearm. “Jack has found a way to heal you. As expected, it’s with angel grace. A lot of it. Enough to kill one.”

 

Dean’s eyes darted around Cas’ face, looking for good news. “Well, can’t you just all pitch in and call it a day?” he asked with a small laugh. 

 

“No,” Cas answered as if he expected the question. “It requires the reserves a celestial being usually keeps hidden to stay alive, even if their grace is depleted.”

 

Dean swallowed, his stomach beginning to drop. “Cas. What’s going on out there?”

 

“Jack volunteered to heal you, but I wouldn’t let him. Dean, he isn’t even up to full power. It would kill him, too. I came back to tell you goodbye.”

 

Leaning back, Dean stopped breathing long enough for reality to settle in. “Cas, no,” he murmured. “You were supposed to bring me back to a life with you in it. We were supposed to always have each other.”

 

“You’ll have the rest of your family.”

 

“You’re not just family to me, man!”

 

Cas froze. He rolled the words over in his mind, certain he didn’t hear what he thought he did. “What?”

 

“Look, my brother, my mom, Jack… I’d die for them. I love them so much. More than anything, I thought. When I consider you family, you’re in, you know? It’s the best compliment I can give, or so I thought.” Licking his bottom lip, he paused before continuing. “But you? You’re in a category all your own. I’ve never had anyone in my life like that, so I never knew where to place you. But you’re the best thing in my life. The biggest part of me. I can’t lose you, Cas.”

 

During Dean’s monologue, Cas had moved into Dean’s space, faces close enough to feel each other’s heat. If either of them moved, their noses would bump. Fingers splayed against Dean’s chest, Cas absorbed every word Dean said like he was starved for it. 

 

“You’re the biggest part of me, too,” Cas supplied quietly, eyes dancing across Dean’s freckles. 

 

With a sigh, Dean committed the words to memory. Taking Cas’ hands, he guided them over his shoulders so Cas’ wrists were cradling Dean’s neck.

 

“Cas, can I try something?”

 

He nodded. “Of course, Dean. Anything.”

 

Tilting his head slightly, Dean gently held Cas’ face in his hand. The faint brush of stubble barely breaking skin was rough to his touch, and he waved his thumb across it affectionately. Noses brushing, Dean looked down to see Cas very intently looking at his mouth in adoration. Softly lowering his head, Dean pulled Cas closer with his free hand, and their lips met. The spark it ignited coursed through Dean’s body, lighting up every part of him. 

 

Cas’ mouth was even better than he imagined. Lips strong but supple, they fit with his like the universe had forgone billions of years of evolution so they would align exactly so at this moment. Never in his life had he felt so fulfilled, so complete as now. 

 

And so he kept kissing him. He kissed him like he belonged there, in his arms… because he did. He kissed him like there was no tomorrow… because there wasn’t. He kissed him because he had lived so long in fear of how right it would feel, and he was done being afraid. 

 

Dean tenderly pulled away, and he loved the way Cas’ lips puckered against his when they broke the kiss. Cas still had his hands on Dean, but by this time, they had wandered from his neck to his hair and down to his shoulders. The two shared a lazy gaze that was a long time coming, drunken off the haze of a kiss full of ten years in the making. 

 

“Dammit,” Dean muttered under his breath, still in no frame of mind to take his eyes off Cas. 

 

“Mm?” Cas hummed in response. 

 

“I uh,” Dean chuckled, “I was hoping that would like, I dunno, break the spell or something. Like in the Disney movies.”

 

Cas huffed a close-mouthed laugh, a smile stretching across his face. Seeing Cas happy was magical. He didn’t waste smiles on just anything. When you caught him grinning, he was really happy. And here he was with a smile that was put there by Dean. Drawing in a shaky breath, the angel began shifting around uneasily, his lips turning pale. When his knees gave out on him, Dean caught him in his existing embrace and lifted him back onto the couch.

 

“Woah, hey Cas,” he said restlessly. “What’s wrong?”

 

Although rapidly weakening, Cas managed a small half smile and raised his head. “You’ll be awake soon, Dean.”

 

“No. No!” he cried desperately. “Not without you!”

 

His grace pouring at full speed, Cas looked around at the mind prison from which Dean would soon be free. Cas laid down against a pillow, so weak he could barely keep is eyes open, ready and willing to give up every last drop of his celestial essence for the man hovering over him. Tears were threatening Dean’s eyes as he grasped Cas’ hands, never for one moment looking away.

 

Dean,” Cas murmured, “I lo --”

 

Before his very eyes, Cas had vanished. With a gasp, Dean fisted the couch where Cas had laid, head hung low as despair washed over him. Every moment of his whole life except the last minute faded away, and his final moments with Cas played on repeat over and over. In his dying moment, Cas started to tell Dean that he loved him, and he never finished. Filled with remorse, Dean laid his head down on the couch, coughing on sobs that never quite made it to the surface. Closing his eyes, he imagined Cas finishing the sentence, but reminded himself that it was too late, and pushed it out of his mind. He would never hear those words from Cas. He didn’t deserve to even  _ pretend  _ he heard those words from Cas.

 

“Dean?” came a timid voice.

 

Dean sat up with a start, fully expecting to see a hospital room and maybe a get well card hanging on the wall.

 

It was Jack.

 

And they were still in his mind.

 

“Hey kid,” Dean answered, rubbing his eyes and glancing around nervously, sure the world around him would start crumbling. No such thing happened, however, and he looked up at Jack from his spot on the couch and took in an uneasy breath. “Where’s Cas?”

 

“He’s okay,” Jack assured him, sitting down beside him. “I stopped him before he gave too much. He will recover, I promise.” Dean sat still as a statue in response. “I’m here to take his place.”

 

“Jack,” Dean began, but the weakening nephilim wouldn’t be stopped.

 

“No, Dean! Listen. You and Cas need each other. You need to be together.”

 

“There’s gotta be another way.”

 

Jack shook his head. “I’ve looked. This is the only way.” Watching the walls seep glowing gold grace, he sat content in the knowledge that he was doing this for his family. “Dean, I have something I need to tell you. Once you wake up, you can tell the others. I’ve been keeping a secret.”

 

Dean felt the strength of Jack’s healing powers surge through every fiber of his being. “Okay, well you’ve gotta tell them yourself, ‘cause I ain’t letting you do this. If you die on my watch, Jack, I’ll never forgive myself.”

 

“I’ve been… doing research…” Jack had to pause to catch his breath between words, his grace reserve reaching dangerously low levels. “I think I might have a way to defeat Michael.”

 

“Jack, I thought nephilims were basically indestructible.”

 

“Anything celestial can die if all that makes it celestial is gone,” Jack replied. “Even me.” Lightheaded, he fell backwards onto the couch, barely breathing.

 

“Jack! No. Don’t you dare.”

 

When Dean shook his shoulders, Jack’s eyes opened just enough to see his grace trickling through the ceiling and floors, and bleeding onto Dean. “I also stored away some of my creations. But find the… the research first. I’ve been studying it for… a while. Didn’t want to present it before all the work… was… done.”

 

Dean let out a quivering breath and nodded. “Where is it, Jack?”

 

“It’s…”

 

“Jack?”

 

“It’s in… the…”

 

“Jack!”

 

With no more grace to give, Jack slumped back into the pillow, his last breath both the loudest and quietest thing in the room. It was the most terrible sound Dean could ever fathom. As the only noise in the room became Dean’s own breathing, shock overtook him and he stumbled backwards onto the floor. Disoriented, he twitched around, trying to figure out which way was up. With a final push, he sat up and opened his eyes.

 

The first face he saw was Cas, in a hospital room.


	9. Man In Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters deal with the aftermath of a death in the family. In a makeshift torture chamber, Michael reveals to Bee that information isn't the only thing he wants from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Michael is an asshole

“‘B’ as in A, B, C?” Michael questioned while sharpening a knife in the church cellar.

 

Hands tied above her head, she rolled her eyes so hard she was pretty sure she pulled a muscle. “No, dumbass. Bee as in a bee! Buzz, buzz, motherfucker!”

 

Undeterred, Michael swaggered over to where she was dangling, renewed blade swinging in his hand. His latest vessel was brand new, and he was going to spend the good part of its shelf life right here, wearing out his pain-inflicting tools on this insufferable piece of work.

 

“I knew from the moment you walked into that cement room that you were something special,” he commented. He feathered the knife over her neck. “It’s radiating off of you. I’ve never seen anything like you.”

 

“I guess I must be limited edition, then,” she offered vaguely, forcing a half smile. He should try telling her something she didn’t already know. She was the only one of her kind. A freak of nature. She wasn’t even supposed to exist. Nephilims were historically hunted down because of their god-like powers, but Jack had dodged kidnapping and started making stuff. If the angels in heaven could see her, they’d label her as an abomination. The thing which is and should never be. The creation of Satan’s offspring.

 

“Does it bother you that there is no one else like you?” he remarked, dipping his blade into her flesh. She muffled a yell behind her closed mouth. “You know, I can relate to you. I’m the only archangel left in this world.”

 

Stifling a laugh, Bee raised a brow. “That’s what you’re doing? Trying to recruit me into your freak show?”

 

Plunging the knife into her shoulder and twisting it, Michael grumbled above her screams, “That, among other things. I can give you a place in this world. What is your purpose here? Huh? To follow around that clown in the trench coat and his merry band?”

 

“Shut up,” she hissed. “I’m not following around anybody. My family needed help and I’m helping them.” She didn’t want to think about using the last of her nephilim grace to change back into her original form, never to hear a voice or see a sunset again.

 

She didn’t want to think about the boys going about their lives, but her ceasing to exist, laying down the memories she made as she turned back to what she was designed to be. She had gone this long believing that maybe, just maybe, she would find purpose independent of what she had originally been created as. She wasn’t a thing. The car was a thing. She was Bee. Two different lives -- one an object, the other a person… with the car’s memories. Why did Jack make things so complicated for her? Why was she made like this?

 

“You sure it’s not ‘B’ as in --”

 

“Alright, I admit, it’s ‘B’ as in Bonzo, alright?” she taunted as Michael yanked the knife out of her and waltzed over to his table of torture goodies. “He was like, the best drummer ever. No but really, it’s Bee as in a honey bee. They’re Castiel’s favorite. They work hard for a common good and would die just to cause you a small amount of pain. They’ve got it all: work ethic and pettiness.” That much was the truth. Inspirational small fries, bees were.

 

Michael came back over to Bee with several thin rods and a strange looking helmet. It looked… painful. She struggled against the chains as he slipped it over her head and began positioning the metal sticks.

 

“You know, I don’t think I’m going to need to use this,” Michael sighed as he twisted the controls, bringing the rods right up against her temple. “I think you’re going to tell me exactly what I want to know about the Winchesters and their army.”

 

Bee chuckled. “And what makes you say that?”

 

Stepping away, Michael pulled a book out of his coat pocket and flipped to the last few pages. Bee recognized the author name: Carver Edlund. Swallowing and putting on her best game face, she stared him down as he got in her face again, place marked in the book with a finger.

 

“Is it ‘B’ as in… Baby?”

 

Okay, now that was just rude.

 

“What?” she sniffed. If that fucker thought she named herself after a pet name that Dean popularized, well then, feminism was even further behind than she thought.

 

Michael began reading. “The Impala, of course, has all the things other cars have... and a few things they don't. But none of that stuff's important. This is the stuff that's important. The army man that Sam crammed in the ashtray –” Picking through Bee’s wild, unbrushed hair, he felt around until he found a small, plastic figure embedded into her skull. In one brutal sweep, he tore it out, along with blood, skin, and hair. Bee’s screams echoed through the cramped cellar. Michael held the decades old army man and pieces of her head in front of her eyes, blood coating his fingers and dripping to the floor.

 

“The Legos that Dean shoved into the vents –” Michael went on, pausing to punch Bee in the gut, the shock of the blow knocking the wind out of her. Feeling something tumble out of her throat, she looked down to see blue, red, and yellow Legos scattered below.

 

“The Devil doesn't know or care what kind of car the boys drive,” Michael finished, looking up from his reading. He closed the book and turned his attention to his captive. “Did you think I’d come at Sam and Dean Winchester in their own universe without doing a little research?”

 

Her heart sank.

 

“I’m not like my brother, Lucifer -- neither version. See, I do care about what car they drive. Just think of the tales it could tell.”

 

She winced when he referred to her as that.

 

“So let me ask you again, _Baby_. Are you ready to tell me more about the Winchesters?”

 

Leaning forward, she got in his face and rasped, “My name is Bee.”

 

“What’s it like? Being human? Or whatever you are,” Michael chimed in a sing-song voice, excited about getting to use his mind digger after all. “You hate it, don’t you.”

 

Bee fell unnaturally quiet.

 

Twisting the first rod in, Michael broke skin as she fought to ignore the pain. Slowly it turned in, deeper and deeper. Pausing from the first one, he twisted another, careful to keep her fully conscious. Having them feel their minds being toyed with was part of the fun.

 

“You were hailed as a hero, once upon a time,” he continued. “Now what? You’re summoned for one duty and then discarded for the rest of the war against me?” He smiled as she gasped in horror -- she could feel her mind being slowly tapped into. His words slowed as he concentrated on the thoughts he was starting to see. “I bet you were treated better as a car.”

 

“Stop!” she screamed, pulling against her rattling chains. “Leave me alone!”

 

“But I haven’t even told you the best part,” he chuckled, setting the blood-drenched army man onto his table and wiping his hands off with a towel. “I have plans for you! You see, these fragile vessels… they last maybe a day. I bet yours would last me a week, at least. I could give you purpose.” He approached her again and started twisting another rod. “I could get so much done! I waste valuable time going from meat suit to meat suit. So what do you say? Help a noble cause?”

 

“Fat chance, Mikey,” Bee laughed roughly, her throat still burning from the Legos she coughed up.

 

Nodding condescendingly, Michael pursed his lips and adjusted two more rods behind her head. “Well then, I’ll just have to make you say ‘yes’ the fun way.” Bee shot a glance up at him, her eyes wide with terror. “Oh come now, darling. You think every single televangelist I’ve ever possessed was a completely willing participant?”

 

Bee leaned back as far as she could, but she could never escape his reach from where she stood. Feeling the sharp objects piercing her head from behind, she wailed in protest at every turn of his hand.

 

“No! No,” she kept yelling, her vocal cords further abused. “No no no, no.” She could feel her mind being pried open, words being put into her head, taking control of her. “Please, no,” she begged, feeling the word ‘yes’ echoing throughout every inch of her until it was the only word she could imagine. She pushed it away as far as she could, thinking about all the ways Michael could use her against the Winchesters, but the word kept coming back. She violently shook her head, fighting the urge to speak, because the word right behind her lips would be her undoing. Her tongue betrayed her, posing behind her teeth in preparation to say it. With one last twist, the walls in her mind came crashing down, and she opened her mouth.

 

* * *

 

The first face he saw was Cas. He was leaning over the bed, fisting hospital bed sheets and calling Dean’s name over and over. Dean raised his eyes to see monitors above him beeping, double vision blurring in and out as he came back to grasp with the world around him. So much white -- the walls, the bed, the ceiling -- and the awful fluorescent lighting made it entirely too bright. He squinted and blinked, disoriented from the sudden jump back into consciousness. His eyes darted around the room, his deeply-ingrained hunter instincts telling him to secure the area. No one at the door. No shadows coming from behind him.

 

The second face he saw was Jack.

 

“Dean!” Cas repeated, grabbing Dean’s shoulder to tear his attention away from the awful sight. But it was too late. Dean had already seen Jack’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor, sweaty and pale.

 

Tumbling out of his bed, Dean ripped his IV out and landed by Jack, his monitoring cables torn off and alerting several nurses. There had to be something he could do. He was Dean Winchester. Saving people. That was his job. He didn’t have time for all the hands grabbing him from behind, urging him to move. He had to do his job. Why weren’t they letting him do his job?

 

Everything felt like it was happening outside of his body, like he was experiencing it all in third person. He saw his hands reach out for Jack’s face, felt his own mouth open to call out for him, and could see himself being dragged away, but none of it seemed real. All noises were muffled by his heartbeat throbbing in his ears and the flatline tone from ripping off his cables. Had he been yelling Jack’s name this whole time? Had he been yelling anything at all? Retreating against the nearest wall, a knot formed in his stomach as the realization dawned on him: Jack was dead.

 

Losing sight of the boy as more nurses gathered around and attempted to resuscitate him, Dean tuned out every sight, sound, and touch possible as he sank into shame. The person lying on the floor, never to rise again, had been under his charge. As far as he was concerned, Jack was his own son, and Dean was supposed to protect him. He would’ve done anything for Jack. He would’ve died for him. Not the other way around. It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around! How could he let this happen? Why didn’t he resist Jack’s healing? Surely he could’ve stopped it.

 

But he wasn’t the only one who would be affected by this. What about Cas? Jack chose Cas to be his father, and Cas entrusted Dean with his care. He had failed as a parent. Hell, he had failed as a human being. He twitched as someone put their hand on the back of his neck, then fell right back into his spiral. Cas would never forgive him for this. He shouldn’t, anyway. Maybe he wouldn’t let himself be forgiven. He knew for certain he didn’t deserve it.

 

It was all his fault, after all. None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t said yes to Michael. And how the bastard could come back any time he wanted, like archangel possession is some kind of open invitation. In the moment Lucifer took Jack and Sam, Dean saw no other way. But maybe Cas was right; maybe there was another way all along, but he refused to see. Desperation did awful things to people. But it was too late to consider what might have been; Dean had made the poetically symmetrical choice of saying yes to his role as the Michael Sword and was paying the consequences. He just never imagined those consequences would include the death of the person he sacrificed so much to save.

 

The repetition of his name broke his absorption and he shook out of the daze to see Cas once more, but this time in homey, yellow lighting. He shuffled around to discover he was sitting down on his soft bed, surrounded by guns hanging from the wall and people peeping into the cracked door. He was in his room.

 

“Dean,” Cas softened his voice once he knew Dean was responsive. “Dean, it’s me.”

 

He looked around the room and back at Cas, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t want to answer.

 

Cas noticed his wordless glances and explained, “You’re back home. You’re awake now. I flew you back here just a few minutes ago.”

 

The people outside his room shifted around until Sam, head and shoulders above the rest, pressed his way through the crowd. “Excuse me,” he kept saying, even after he made it into the room. His mouth dropped open when he saw his brother. “Dean!”

 

“He hasn’t said a word since he woke up,” Cas warned. “He’s physically healthy but he might still be in shock.”

 

Shock, his ass. He had passed shock a long time ago. He just wasn’t going to open his stupid mouth, that’s all. Last time that happened, he got himself possessed by a jackass archangel and fucked shit up. No, he was not in shock. He was fucking pissed.

 

“Dean,” Sam greeted quietly, “you’re back.” He rushed to hug his big brother, whose uncharacteristically limp embrace was worrying. Sam released him, trying not to read too much into it, and turned to Cas. “Where’s Jack?”

 

Dean’s head fell and Cas’ shoulders slumped. Denial swept over Sam’s face and he started looking between the two, hoping one of them would let up from the telling silence. Dean kept staring down but Cas finally made eye contact and shook his head slowly at Sam.

 

“No,” Sam rejected. He took a step back as his eyes glossed over with confusion. Jack had managed to fly off on him, push past Castiel, _and_ resist Dean’s protests? Jack was his family. He was supposed to come home alive with Dean and Cas.

 

Guilt settled in as Dean sat silently. Now Sam would never forgive him. Someone was supposed to stop Jack at some point. The kid had probably mojo-shocked anyone who stood in his way between here and the hospital, then Chuck Norris’d Cas to the sidelines and jumped into his comatose head while Cas was down. Dean was their last line of defense to save Jack and… he blew it. In his mind, there wasn’t a single scenario in which this wasn’t his fault.

 

As Sam ran his hands over his teary eyes and Cas embraced him while his own tears fell freely, Dean sat motionless. Nothing could undo today’s tragedy. No words could fix what was broken. In fact, talking might make things worse, if recent experiences were any indicator. And so he remained silent.

 

* * *

 

Three distinct gunshots from outside interrupted Bee’s screaming and Michael’s mind control, turning their attention toward the cellar entrance to see the door fling open, shards of wood hitting the floor. Bee held her breath as two feet appeared on the stairs from above, the boards creaking with every step. The form was mostly cloaked in darkness, but a laptop bag swung from a shoulder as a foot kicked chunks of wood that had fallen in the way.

 

Bee exhaled sharply at the welcomed sight. It was Charlie.

 

“Your graced-up groupies are dead,” she scoffed casually. “That angel juice doesn’t do much good before they swallow it, you know.” She held up three necklaces laden with grace vials. “Trade?”

 

“For what? Her?” Michael chided. “What makes you think I’d worry over three tiny helpings of my grace? There’s plenty more where that came from.”

 

“Yeah I get that,” Charlie shrugged, taking another step. “But we have a witch who would love to get her hands on it.”

 

Michael’s face shifted, but didn’t falter.

 

“With a strand of your hair, she could track you. With your blood, she could curse you. With your grace?” she continued, swinging the necklaces in a circle. “Now she’d have some fun with that.”

 

Michael raised his brow, glancing over at Bee and back at Charlie. He fished around in his pocket. “Fine,” he agreed, throwing a key on the floor. “This merely buys you time. You have thirty minutes before I start hunting her down again.”

 

Three bold steps later, Charlie shoved the grace vials into his hand. “Now get the hell away from her,” she ordered. In a flurry of wings, Michael was gone. Charlie picked up the key and hurried to the chains dangling Bee from the ceiling.

 

Relief washing over her, Bee breathed deep as Charlie worked at the lock above her. Never had she been so glad to see someone. Charlie tenderly unscrewed the rods from her skull, making Bee sob with renewed pain of having something moving inside her head, but the contraption was off in no time. Bee started to collapse after Charlie ripped the chain off the loosened padlock, but she broke Bee’s fall and slowly lowered her onto the floor, keeping her supported in her arms.

 

“You okay?” Charlie asked, genuine concern all over face.

 

Bee coughed, the blunt force of Michael’s blow a dull pain her gut. “You saved me,” her hoarse voice gravelled.

 

Charlie smirked. “I do that sometimes. I’m a badass like that.”

 

“I didn’t think anyone would come for me,” Bee admitted, the beginnings of tears stinging her eyes. “You, least of all. You could be out there shooting down Michael’s gang with your eyes shut.”

 

“Ah, so you were impressed by my mad skills at the gun range?”

 

“Yeah,” Bee divulged with a pained laugh.

 

Charlie puffed up her chest proudly. “Good!”

 

“Why? You make it a point to show off for all the girls?”  


“Nah,” she replied with a grin, “only the gorgeous ones.”

 

Blush rising into her cheeks, Bee looked down, not able to stop herself from smiling. She had been rescued without a single second to spare, by Charlie no less. Although not understanding why someone would go out of their way to do such a thing, she was infinitely grateful, and a warm, bright feeling swelled in her. Come to think of it, this was sort of romantic. She couldn’t excuse the hammering in her head from the rods, nor the emotional exhaustion from having her mind so cruelly toyed with or body berayed with a word she never wanted to say; but Charlie had stopped it before it could get worse, and Bee supposed that made her a hero.

 

“You alright to walk?” Charlie asked.

 

“I think so,” Bee replied, lifted to her feet without issue. To her knowledge, none of Michael’s toys had any effect on her legs. Draping an arm over Charlie for support, she stepped carefully towards the steps, snatching the army man and a few Legos on the way and thankful that Charlie didn’t question it.

 

“How did you find me, anyway?” Bee asked.

 

“I’m pretty good at tracking,” Charlie answered. “And you were pretty good at leaving tracks when you struggled all the way to the cellar.”

 

It was true that Bee had twisted in their grip several times on the way to the makeshift torture chamber. She dug her heels into the soft ground, resisting the destination for as long as possible. Now she was glad she gave her captors a hard time, because Charlie might not have found her before she said the magic word… or found her at all.

 

“Geez,” Charlie gasped once they were outside, finally able to get a good look at her. Her hair was plastered with blood, plus a stab wound in her shoulder and marks from drill holes on her head. “You wanna go home and get cleaned up?”

 

“No,” Bee answered too quickly. She wanted to be in the action. It would drown out the sound of Michael’s jeers repeating in her head. It would give her something else to think about besides how much pain she was in. It meant she wouldn’t have to be alone, where today’s happenings would surely come back to haunt her.

 

“If you come back to the bunker with me, we can watch a movie,” Charlie offered. “And cuddle. But only if you want.”

 

Bee tilted her head and smiled, toeing the ground. “That sounds nice.”

 

“Awesome,” Charlie beamed, reaching into her laptop case. “Oh and uh, you dropped this.”

 

She handed Bee the mixtape Dean made Cas, and she took it apprehensively. She must have dropped it along the way. Did Charlie know about her? Clearing her throat, Bee tucked it away and mumbled a quick thank you.

 

“I know,” Charlie blurted, and their eyes met without having to finish the sentence. Bee held her breath as she waited for the inevitable pass of judgement or weird question. But it never came.

 

“We should, uh,” Bee began after the awkward silence, “we should get back home.”

 

“Yeah, and we should hurry. That asshole only gave us 30 minutes.”

 

Bee shifted around from side to side, something obviously on her mind. Charlie had started a brisk walk, but paused when she noticed Bee wasn’t following her.

 

“I can run fast,” Bee piped up quietly. “As fast as a…” She avoided eye contact as she trailed off.

 

Charlie just smiled and nodded.

 

Bee took a long look toward the winding road that led to the bunker. It would be a comfortable enough trip for a newbie. She stepped toward Charlie and held out her hand.

 

“Hold on tight.”

 

* * *

 

The news of Dean’s return spread like wildfire through the bunker. Curious onlookers sneaked as close to his room as they could, but everyone made way for his brother and mother. Whispers of Jack bounced off person to person soon after Sam entered the room. Still in the hallway, Mary covered her mouth and choked back a sob. On the verge of tears, she disappeared into Dean’s room to see her boys, minus one, and tried to be brave for them.

 

Charlie and Bee had returned in time to see the reunion and hear the news. They were towards the back of the crowd, trying not to draw attention to themselves with the Bee’s muddy shoes and bloody clothes. Although this version of Charlie was more detached from the Winchesters and Jack, she was still shocked and saddened by the news, but Bee fell deathly quiet.

 

She cried in the shower, away from listening ears. She cried while changing into something comfortable, then wiped her face, only to begin again. She sucked in a quaking breath and sniffed before opening the door, knowing Charlie would be over soon. Taking the lack of an occupant to mean the room was available, Bee called dibs with her shoes kicked off by the door and using the shower that hadn’t been used in who knows how long.

 

She cried because that had been what she wanted to do ever since she saw Michael’s face again. It was a different face, but the way he tugged at his vessel’s facial muscles was all the same. For all her scrubbing, she couldn’t wash away the sound of his voice echoing in her head. Breaking her apart piece by piece had been enjoyable for him, and now here she was, left to pick up the pieces.

 

Bee wasn’t sure what she could’ve done to prevent everything today from happening, but she was sure she could’ve done something. Maybe she was too curt with Rowena; if she had spent a little more time talking, would she have gotten kidnapped? Should she have left right after teaching Castiel how to telepathically speak to Dean, instead of waiting for him? Should she have fought harder against Michael’s followers?

 

No matter how much she cried, it didn’t make her feel better; this wasn’t even her day to cry -- how could she be so selfish to cry over herself when she should be mourning Jack? His body was in a morgue, lying there like any ol’ regular joe, when the reason for his death was anything but medical. Whatever the case, however things could’ve gone, Jack was gone.

 

And so she was alone. The omnipotent being that spoke her into existence was no more. Questions about her state of being would forever go unanswered. Why had he included so many details that mirrored her original form? The world had no place for a creature like her. Why did she remember everything? Surely it wasn’t necessary. And with all her so-called abilities that amused humans and attracted the supernatural, what was she supposed to do next?

 

“Hey,” Charlie mumbled, her head barely in the door. She was carrying her laptop and a few DVDs.

 

Bee forced a half smile and sat against the headboard, making sure there was plenty of room beside her. Charlie didn’t miss the uneasy greeting but didn’t mention it, and instead plopped down beside her and opened up her computer.

 

“Why are you being nice to me?” Bee uttered, barely loud enough to hear.

 

Blinking hard, Charlie glanced over at her and paused from typing her password. “Because you’re a person, Bee. In general, people deserve to be treated nice.”

 

“I’m not though,” she contended. “I was made out of a car.”

 

Charlie finished unlocking her laptop and popped a DVD into the drive. “We’re all made of something,” she replied. “Aren’t humans made of like, dirt or…?”

 

Bee let out a short giggle. She thought back to her days on the road with Sal Moriarty. What was the verse?

 

“Dust of the ground,” Bee quoted.

 

“Yeah, that’s the shit,” Charlie agreed with finger guns.

 

“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul,” Bee railed off quickly, a little embarrassed at how easy that was to remember. She cleared her throat and blushed. “Genesis 2:7.”

 

“You’re such a nerd,” Charlie teased, rolling her eyes. “Let’s watch something.”

 

“I never got a chance to say hi to Dean after he woke up,” Bee interjected. She had thought about visiting him all evening, but didn’t know what to say that Sam, Cas, or his mom hadn’t already said. She just knew she had to be there.

 

“Oh,” Charlie nodded understandingly, setting the laptop down on the bed. “Well I’ll be right here!”

 

“I’m not wiggin’ out on you, don’t worry.”

 

As expected, Dean was sitting in the exact same position as when he first came to. Whether he had moved at all was anyone’s guess… except Bee’s. She knew he hadn’t moved. One look at his plate of leftovers and cup of water told that story. Also, the bed sheets hadn’t been disturbed apart from when people put a knee down to hug him. But she didn’t need any of that to know.

 

He didn’t look up when she tapped the door, or when she walked in, or when she sat on the foot of the bed. She didn’t bother trying to make eye contact at first, since he was still living in the last few seconds of Jack’s life. He would never say it out loud, but he wished he was back in that coma. Although physically present, he wanted to be mindfully absent once more, because that would mean that Jack was still here. And the longer he could pretend, the less he would have to think about the stark reality that waited for him just on the other side of a real-time conversation.

 

Bee turned to him. “Hi Dean,” she finally acknowledged, fully aware that he would not look up.

 

Dean wanted to be angry as hell. He wanted to tune her out, press ignore, scream in her face -- but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her. She had just been tormented by his tormentor. Plus, her being who she was, he owed her a listening ear.

 

“Thank you for telling Cas,” Bee began, not really planning any of the words. “Charlie was my knight in shining armor today. Swept me off my feet and everything.” She picked at her nail bashfully, knowing full well Charlie was wooing her. “She’s nice. I like her.”

 

Although she knew he could hear her, he still looked so far away. It was alarming how cut off he could be after something that wasn’t his fault. But no one could convince him of that, and she wasn’t about to try.

 

“Dean, I’m not here to play Dr. Phil,” she said thickly, and he shifted in his seat uneasily, but kept his unblinking stare at his lap. “You have… very specific ways of processing grief. And they don’t include talking when you’re not ready for talking. So if you don’t wanna talk, don’t.” She paused and exhaled, knowing he was approaching his fill of pep talk.

 

She looked right at him, unbothered by his blankness. “Dean, when I busted into your walnut and told you that you were going to have to fight your way back… I wasn’t talking about waking up. I was talking about after. I meant now.” She slid off the bed to signal that she was almost gone. “Waking up is easy. Waking up to a world that isn’t the same as you left it and is clawing at you for help? That’s hard. Bobby and his army, and your brother, and Cas --” Dean’s face shot up at the mention of his name. “-- pretty soon they’re gonna be knockin’ at your door, asking for your help in taking down this nasty motherfucker and his hooligans.”

 

Dean’s demeanor had changed. He looked more… present. Not much, but Bee would take it. He had softened at the sound of Cas’ name. Boy, was he whipped. But she already knew that, of course.

 

“And I seem to recall some cheeky bastard saying, once upon a time, ‘You don’t stop being a soldier ‘cause you got wounded in battle’.” Bee turned and walked toward the door, keenly aware of Dean staring her down, as if offended that she used his own words against him. She looked back before leaving. He swallowed and glanced down, but never opened his mouth.

 

“Charlie and I are watching a movie,” Bee finished. “You game?”

 

Dean sat totally motionless, appalled at the thought of thinking about anything besides how worthless he was for letting Jack die. As many colorful words Dean would have liked to use to describe her, only one would do: Right. Bee was _right_. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but soon, he would have to jump back into the fight. It was terrifying. But he had to start somewhere.

 

And so, with a slight grunt, Dean swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so that was a very difficult chapter to write. I think I might need to take a rest from this, as angst and dark!fic stuff isn't really my usual thing. Please let me know what you think, besides how angry you are that I killed off Jack and that Dean and Cas aren't screwing yet! >.< The sexy stuff is coming, I promise. But first, Cas has to get Dean to believe he even deserves to feel good again. Alrighty then, enough spoilers! Please share your thoughts...


	10. We've Got Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael's forces make a strike against old friends of the Winchesters. Back at the bunker, Dean comes up with a plan to take out Michael for good; but before he makes his fatal move, he has plans to make the most of his last night on earth.

“Claire, where have you been? You told me you were going to make dinner tonight!”

 

“First of all, I never said I was ‘making’ anything. I said I was going to ‘take care of it.’ Secondly,” Claire crossed the threshold as she corrected Jody, “dinner is right here.” She held up a large brown paper bag. “I got take out from Golden Dragon!”

 

Jody relaxed her shoulders and followed Claire to help set the table. Alex was reading a book in the living room and Patience was upstairs, but the smell of Chinese food lured them into the kitchen within moments of Claire’s return.

 

“Finally,” Patience sighed. “I thought you had forgotten it’s your night to feed us.”

 

“You guys say that every time,” Claire defended. “But when have I ever forgotten my turn?”

 

“The first three times in a row,” Alex supplied, sliding into her chair nonchalantly and giving the take out bag a good whiff.

 

Claire rolled her eyes. “I meant after I started actually remembering, dumbass.”

 

“Hey,” Jody butted in, reaching into the bag and distributing the entrees. “No came calling at the dinner table.”

 

“Did you get pork fried rice for me?” Patience asked.

 

Claire clanged a fork beside her plate. “You really thought I’d forget that? After the fuss you made last time? I’ve failed as a sister.”

 

“Hey, how come I don’t get any sweet sisterly exchanges?” Alex whined.

 

“Cause you’re an ahhh--” Claire began rattling off, stopping in mid-thought after Jody’s admonishing against language during dinner. Instead, she shrugged and cleared her throat. “It’s because you’re just, such an awesome person, Alex.”

 

“Wow, I’m touched,” came the reply, her mouth already full of orange chicken.

 

“You guys feel that?” Patience put down her fork to ask. A low rumbling was interrupted by the bad feeling in her gut that screamed  _ run _ .

 

As the reverberations got stronger and started rattling the plates in the dishwasher, Jody and the girls started to pile under the table.

 

“Hey!” Claire shouted. “Who are those people?”

 

She pointed outside the window. Three people stood right outside their house, their hands raised towards the roof and small pendants around their necks. The vibrations worsened until the outside walls began cracking and the women realized that their house was being lifted right off the ground.

 

“Get outside!” Jody screamed over the noise of wood snapping and pipes bursting. One after the other, the girls jumped out the back door, their house already two feet off the ground and rapidly rising.

 

As the structure rose above their heads, they once again saw the three people on the other side as they held it steady at ten feet directly above its foundation. Dread took them as the mysterious people across from them made eye contact, then wordlessly concentrated on the house again. Within seconds, it was being pushed inch by inch towards Jody and the girls.

 

“Um,” Alex gulped, “are they going to drop that on our heads?”

 

“I think so,” Patience muttered as they all started backing up.

 

“Dammit, Patience,” Claire groaned. “What good are your psychic visions if they don’t warn you about this kinda stuff?”

 

The four women were in a full sprint now, followed slowly but surely by the entirety of their house. Dirt and pieces of flooring plummeted to the ground, some of it tumbling closer to them than they could outrun.

 

“Hey Jody!” Claire called, dodging a fallen sink pipe. “I’m pretty sure this qualifies for being in fear for your life, you know, in case you wanted to… I dunno, stop them?”

 

Jody reached around to make sure her firearm was on her. It always was, but she was so used to it by now, sometimes it felt like she wasn’t wearing it at all. “I don’t even know what  _ they  _ are,” she replied, removing her hand from her holster. “Bullets might not even work on them. Get in the forest! Hurry!”

 

Approaching thick foliage on the edge of the property, they all piled in, leaping over logs and fallen limbs for several dozen feet before darting to the left. As expected, the people controlling the house lost sight of them and paused from their chase to wait on the women to give away their location.

 

“Sam,” Jody panted with her phone by her ear, hunkered down beside a burr oak with the rest of them. “Sorry I haven’t called. Yes, it’s good to hear you to. Listen, there are these three people trying to drop our house on top of us.”

 

“Tell him about the necklaces!” Claire stage whispered.

 

“Yes, three of them. They’re just lifting the house like it’s nothing. No, I don’t think they’re demons. They had on these necklaces.” Jody paused to listen. “Claire, were the necklaces glowing?”

 

“Huh? I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

 

“He says if they were, they would’ve had angel grace in them.”

 

Claire blinked curiously. “Oh. Empty, I guess. Wait. Were they  _ supposed  _ to have grace in them?”

 

“Okay, okay,” she said every few seconds, Sam filling her in as fast as possible. “Great, I’ve been wanting to meet some of the folks from apocalypse world! Okay… okay bye Sam. Thanks.” After hanging up, she stuffed her phone in her pocket and turned her attention to the rest of the group. “Regular bullets are ineffective. Those are servants of Michael, high on his grace.”

 

“Shit,” Claire muttered, eyes still on the levitating house just a few hundred feet away.

 

“Good news is, some of Bobby’s people are already stationed here and are on their way.”

 

Claire gasped and lunged into Jody, tackling her to the ground. The rest of the girls ducked down and held their breath, listening to the snapping of sticks as someone approached. The crunching leaves got closer, then further away, then closer again. And then they stopped.

 

“They’re over here!” the voice called out.

 

Peeping up from their hiding place, Jody and the girls saw one of the supercharged humans glaring at them, followed by the house slowly looming over them. The structure was creaking right over them, a stray chunk of dirt falling occasionally. The woods were thick and hard to navigate, and no matter where they’d run, the house would crush them and anything they could hide under. Still, they kept backing away, hoping the distance would render them unreachable.

 

Two muffled shots echoed from outside the forest, and the house faltered before the person giving away their whereabouts was stuck holding it up on her own. Grunting as the three-person job strained her, the woman pushed the house back towards its foundations. Her hands were shaking and she began sweating as it moved further and further away from the group of women. Confident enough that the woman’s priorities had changed enough to leave them alone while she was occupied, they hiked out of the wooded area to face a welcomed sight.

 

Charlie and Bee’s net guns had worked, ropes drenched in holy oil before firing. It wouldn’t kill Michael’s graced-up followers, but it would keep them still long enough to figure out what to do with them next. One of Bobby’s men stopped behind them, armed with his own anti-angel gear and ready to take down the last person as soon as she set down Jody’s house.

 

“These guys are looking tuckered out,” Bee noticed, leaning over one of the captured.

 

“The oil must be wearing out the angel mojo,” Charlie suggested while reloading.

 

“House down!” the man shouted.

 

The landing was so gentle, the group could hardly hear it, so they were caught off guard when the weakening soldier of Michael spun around to face them. With one last bout of grace, she pointed her palm at the man who alerted them, who screamed in agony before collapsing. Exhausted from the energy exerted from using her portion of grace, the woman stumbled across Jody’s lawn until Bee and Charlie caught up to her. Without the unfair advantage of archangel grace, cuffing her was easy.

 

“So is ‘enough grace to lift a house off its foundations and kill a man’ a standard unit of measurement, or…?” Bee asked in aggravation at losing someone. “Because that’s how much grace is swinging around on those necklaces.”

 

“Hey,” a voice behind them interjected. The two swung around to see Jody, Claire, Alex, and Patience. Bee smiled warmly, knowing them quite well, but not having time to explain why.

 

“Sheriff Jody Mills,” Bee answered the greeting. “Bobby sent us. We were already in the area looking for these three, actually. I’m Bee and this is Charlie.” 

 

“Thanks for taking them down,” Jody nodded. “Both of you from apocalypse world?”

 

Claire smirked and shook her head. “You’re such a fangirl, Jody.”

 

“Just me,” Charlie piped up. “But we both live in the bunker. Bee’s been there longer than me though.”

 

“Oh, so you know Sam and Dean,” Jody brightened up. “How are they? I didn’t get to ask Sam much when we were, uh, hiding from three psycho archangel cultists.”

 

Bee and Charlie glanced at each other, their demeanors turning somber. “I’m not sure how much you’ve heard,” Charlie explained, “but Dean fell into a coma once he kicked out Michael.”

 

“Yes, Sam told me that much,” Jody replied, the girls gathering around her. “Been kinda out of the loop for the past few days, though. Work has been crazy.”

 

“Dean woke up,” Charlie continued. “But only because Jack sacrificed himself to bring him back.”

 

Claire gasped silently and turned around, hand over her face. Patience and Alex’s eyes widened with shock. Jody stood like a statue for a good five seconds, mouth wide open.

 

“Sacrificed himself? Oh my god,” Jody choked while trying to console Claire, who was silently weeping to the side. Jody put her arm around her in comfort while trying to stay strong herself.

 

“I know I didn’t like,  _ know him _ know him,” Claire sniffed, her voice nasal from her sinuses loosening. “But he was the closest thing to a brother I ever had.”

 

Charlie bit her lip and looked down. “So now Dean’s awake, but he hasn’t said much the past few days.” She noticed Bee raising her brows out of the corner of her eyes. It wasn’t so far from the truth. Dean hadn’t said anything at all, but Jody didn’t need to add a selective mute to her list of things to worry about.

 

The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like Dean. He’s probably found about eighty different ways this is his fault.” She let out a long, shaky sigh, knowing that these two would probably need her help while they were in town. “He’ll come around, I’m sure. He just needs some time.”

 

“He’s going to be okay,” Bee reassured. “The other reason we’re here is to run an experiment.”

 

Alex perked up. “What do you need?”

 

“Just a little room to work,” Bee said, pulling a different vial from her pocket. This one was bright with fresh grace. “We got the call right after we swiped this off of one of the Michael Toothpicks.”

 

“I’m sorry, the what now?” Charlie interrupted, her head cocking to the side like a confused puppy.

 

Bee tangled the necklace around in her hand self-consciously. “Toothpicks, ‘cause they can hurt stuff a little bit but other than that they’re kinda useless. Dean’s the Michael Sword, they’re the Michael… Toothpicks?”

 

Charlie stopped a laugh right behind her lips and faced Jody again. “We need to test our holy oil theory to see if we can lure them into Bobby’s mini bunkers and burn the vials off of the… Michael Toothpicks.”

 

Bee stuck her chin into the air proudly.

 

“Okay, let’s do it,” Alex concurred, breaking away from the group. “I’ll find some cement blocks we can use to simulate a wall and ceiling.” Claire dug around in her pocket for matches and Patience set off to find a less grassy patch of earth to run the test. Jody smiled at the rare sight of the girls joining forces unpressured. But then again, losing Kaia was still fresh, and now they had a death in the Winchester family to stir up the familiar feeling of loss.

 

“You know,” Jody realized, “this plan to weaken Michael’s army is great, but what about taking down Michael himself? Without taking care of the problem at its source, it’s just a game of catch up.”

 

“We know,” Bee admitted. “We’re still working on that part. But his end game is to have only those with his grace walk the earth. He hand picks the most worthy and kills the rest. Likely after he creates a large enough following, he’ll send them to kill the rest of the population. Until we can figure out a way to put a blow on Michael, this is our only move.”

 

“Bee, we’re ready when you are!” Charlie called from across the yard. The girls had set up the simulation, complete with a coating of holy oil around the inside of the cement structure and the vial lying on the ground. “Since an angel can’t cross holy fire, we’re hoping a helping of grace this small will deteriorate under exposure.”

 

“Sounds like a reasonable hypothesis,” Alex commented as Bee set down the glowing vial. “Light ‘er up!”

 

To their delight, the grace erupted into flames within seconds of the holy oil being lit, and the glass burst as the grace fizzled out with a wheezing sound. Claire skipped off clapping, too excited at the newest advancement against Michael to put on a tough exterior. Patience and Alex were grinning at Claire’s victory dance, but dared not say anything lest they spoil her mood.

 

“This is awesome,” Charlie grinned. “I’m calling Bobby. Let the holy fire traps begin.”

 

* * *

 

It had been days since Dean’s return, and he had yet to utter a word. He might have talked to himself in private, but Castiel had no such proof. Each time he attempted to commiserate in Dean’s grief, he was met with stark silence. At least Dean was making eye contact with him. It was a sort of silent communication, acknowledging the words spoken but still trying to punish himself.

 

Cas didn’t know where to go from their previously established comfort level, so he eased in by sitting right next to him on the bed. Dean had leaned into the closeness, laying his head on Cas’ shoulder as the angel rambled on about each day’s happenings. By the third day, Cas was lying face up between his legs, whispering gentle messages of hope as Dean stroked his jet black hair and gazed into his dark blue eyes. By tonight, they were co-sleeping.

 

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, their faces resting on his pillow mere inches away. He wasn’t even sure why he was still calling his name at this point; he was the only other person in the bedroom. Maybe he just liked the way his name sounded rolling off his tongue. “Sam received word from Bobby today. Bee and Charlie succeeded in the experiment. Our people will begin prepping Bobby’s underground rooms tomorrow.”

 

Dean liked it when Cas came and brought him word every day. It made him feel less dissociated. He was torn between hating the sound of joining the ranks and loving it, but once he made the decision to jump back in, there was no going back. Could he focus on war tactics when flashbacks were still happening? Usually his nightmares ended once he woke up. Not being able to escape the terrors of living after archangel possession put a huge damper on his enthusiasm of going head to head with said archangel.

 

“You don’t have to blame yourself, Dean,” Cas shifted focus, trying his repeatedly failing comforting technique. “We all taught Jack the value of family, that’s not just on you. He used the teachings we gave him and he made his own decision. It doesn’t make it any easier, but it does mean we should do what he would want: use the tools we have to defeat the enemy.”

 

Tools. Didn’t Jack say something about finding something to defeat Michael? Dean jerked away when Cas tried touching his face. Getting touchy-feely wasn’t the reward Cas got from spouting off more self-help bullshit. 

 

Seeing his efforts were fruitless, Cas switched back to his first topic. “Although this greatly helps the matter of his foot soldiers, it still doesn’t solve the problem of Michael himself. With the extermination of grace helpings, we simply take away their power. We still face the issues of their allegiance to him, the prayers they can offer to him for refills on grace, and the influence they hold on their community by way of evangelizing for him. All of these problems can be solved by defeating him, but we just don’t know how.”

 

Dean laid his head on Cas’ chest, relaxing into the touch of their fingers mindlessly intertwining. What was it Jack said? _ I think I might have a way to defeat Michael. I’ve been doing research. _ What sort of research? On the computer? In a journal? If there was a single iota out of place on their computer, Sam would’ve found it immediately. And he didn’t keep a journal… did he? The kid probably had it all up in his head and let it die with him. 

 

“Michael essentially cannot be killed,” Cas continued. “We have the archangel blade from when you expelled him in the abandoned missile base, but he’s the only one left, and he’s not even ours to begin with. You need an archangel to kill an archangel.”

 

An idea sparked in Dean’s mind. It was suicidal, but it could work.

 

Dean sat up in bed, glaring at Cas until he followed him up and waited for him to give explanation. Rolling the words over and over in his head, Dean prepared himself for the backlash that would ensue. He hated the idea as much as Cas would, but he hated the idea of living on in his miserable state even more.

 

“I’ll do it,” Dean’s voice croaked under days of unuse.

 

Cas stood up in a frenzy, about ninety percent sure he was hallucinating. “Dean?” he asked skeptically. “What did you --”

 

“I said I’ll do it,” he repeated, clearing his throat. “I’ll let the bastard back in, and then stab myself.”

 

“Dean, no. Sam!” Cas yelled, circling around the room once before finding the door. Of all the disorienting first things to say, it was so completely Dean to spew out something so ridiculous.

 

Seconds later, Sam came running in, startled at Cas’ tone.

 

“Dean is speaking,” Castiel stated bluntly.

 

Sam ran to hug Dean, nearly knocking him over. “But Cas, that’s great! Dean, hey.” Sam thumped his brother on the back a couple of times before letting him go, relieved that he returned the embrace this time.

 

“Tell him what you told me, Dean,” Cas urged, unwilling to repeat the words himself.

 

“The archangel blade, I want to use it on Michael, just need to let him back in is all,” he rattled off quickly.

 

Face falling into shock, Sam scoffed and held up his hands. “Oh, that’s all? You’ll just go on a kamikaze mission to bait Michael and end it all for both of you?” He shook his head and let out a loud, defiant sigh. “No, Dean. You’re not dying in order to take Michael down. You think Jack died in that hospital for this?” He had raised his voice, and dammit this wasn’t how he expected to spend his brother’s first day talking again, but yet, here they were. “You think he would want to know that he died for nothing? Forget it, Dean.” 

 

After Sam stormed out of the room, Dean leaned back against the headboard and slumped his shoulders. “It’s the only way, Cas,” he insisted, then thought about how long it had been since he said Cas’ name. Obviously it had been awhile since he said anything, but his name was the sweetest thing he could imagine saying, and he didn’t even stop to relish it. Maybe he should say it again, just so he could enjoy it properly.

 

Cas didn’t want to consider how acutely out of options they were. “Dean,” he pleaded, “whether you do this or not, don’t go just yet. Please.”

 

Dean nodded and laid back in bed, once again falling into thoughtful silence. He wouldn’t dream of taking off right away. Not when he still had so much he wanted to say -- and do -- to Cas. Holding out his arm, he waited for Cas to return to his side on the memory foam mattress and they held each other in a snug but gentle knot, the simplicity of Dean’s idea making increasingly more sense as the time slugged by. 

 

If he was to defy his brother’s wishes and follow through on this, he had very little time left with Cas. All those memories of the beach came rushing back -- Cas’ glistening tan skin, their playful banter, the way his hip bones sunk into his trunks -- and he realized more than ever that he wanted that. He wanted a happy ending with Cas, and now he would never have it. Because he needed to make things right; he needed to rebalance the universe after he messed everything up. Maybe he didn’t deserve a happy ending. Perhaps this is what he got for submitting to fate and getting Jack killed.

 

And then Dean snapped out of the self-loathing for just a split second. Amid the plummeting self esteem and cruel voices in his head, the part of him that was still self-serving pierced through. It rang like a bell through every part of his body, and his fingers prickled with the thought as a jolt traveled right between his legs.

 

_ I might not live happily ever after who I love -- with Cas. If this happens, we are never going to have a happy ending with beaches and hula skirts and Sam playing fetch with some chick’s goddamn dog. So if this is it for me, I’m going out with some memories. _

 

Dean reached around Cas’ neck and pulled his face closer, eyes never leaving his lips. He thought about all the times he almost made a move, but chickened out. He thought about jerking off with Cas’ name on his lips, wishing it was his hands around his cock. He thought about all the times he had almost jumped his bones from the sheer sexual frustration Dean found himself in from being around the guy. And deep inside, those three words played on repeat but got perpetually caught in his throat, whether from fear of rejection or from causing nothing but pain to everyone involved:  _ I love you _ .

 

He hoped Dean could hear the words ringing in his soul, because he wasn’t ready to blurt them out. Not tonight. Maybe even not tomorrow. But soon, before Michael once again took away everything, he would. For now, however, they had tonight. 

 

“Dean?” Cas puttered, his own eyes falling to Dean’s mouth. 

 

Dean thumbed Cas’ bottom lip, the intimate contact taking Cas’ breath away. Closing in, Dean raked his fingertips tenderly across Cas’ face, the slight scratch from his last shave rough and captivating. 

 

“Cas, I… I need to do this.”

 

Fired up by the advance, Cas took Dean’s face in his own hands. All else faded away as Cas laid his lips softly over Dean’s and pressed their bodies together. Dean returned the kiss by offering his tongue and open mouth, which Cas accepted gladly. The dull heat between them grew to a rampant flame, consuming them, making them wild with desire. 

 

The consummation of all that had happened, all that shouldn’t have, and anything that might come to be — it all collided here, between Castiel and Dean Winchester’s bodies rocking together, mouths desperate to taste every inch of lip, tongue, teeth. 

 

Dean shoved his leg against Cas’ pelvis and found him hard in his pants. Panting unevenly, Cas reached between them to feel Dean’s erection. The two locked eyes for a moment, then resumed kissing and sucking and loving, the coil deep within winding tighter with every touch. 

 

Cas’ name was a sacred utterance on Dean’s lips, each time more holy and beautiful than the last. 

 

“Cas... Cas. Shit, Cas,” he whispered when he came up to breathe. Cas groaned in reply and rolled his hips against Dean once more, his cock hardened to the point of aching. “Fuck, Cas. I need to… Cas I need…”

 

With flimsy fingers numbed by all the blood rushing to his dick, Dean fumbled at Cas’ tie and mumbled his name and several inarticulate swears. Face red with desire, Cas tore at Dean’s shirt and belt, the reality setting in that Dean wanted him. He had waited so long, unsure if his desire was requited and unwilling to make a wrong move and “spoil the friendship” as some humans put it. But between the rapid exposure of skin and kisses at every new inch he was uncovering, that way of thinking could go directly to hell.

 

Because tonight, after all he had suffered and all that stood before him, he was in need. He needed to feel the touch of someone who saw the damage done but faulted him with nothing. He needed to know that he did deserve to feel good. He needed unconditional love. And tonight, Cas would give it all to him.

* * *

 

> I know it's late, I know you're weary   
> I know your plans don't include me   
> Still here we are, both of us lonely 
> 
>  
> 
> We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow?   
> Let's make it last, let's find a way   
> Turn out the lights, come take my hand
> 
>   
> We've got tonight babe   
> Why don't you stay? 
> 
> -Bob Seger


	11. So Fine, You Blow My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Dean's plan to eradicate Michael, Castiel and Dean give into desires they've been suppressing for a decade.

With nothing covering them but sheets and each other’s hands, the two men huffed small approving noises as they felt and squeezed and rubbed. Dean’s fingers dug into Cas’ back, leaving shallow red marks, but Cas responded by arching into the touch and stroking Dean’s shoulders in strong, possessive hands.

 

Dean loved having his shoulders touched. Most people held them like he was made of glass -- barely there caresses that left him needing more. Cas didn’t touch him like that. Dean groaned in delight at being handled like a man, thumbs kneading his biceps and nails digging moon-shaped indentations into his skin. He finally allowed his eyes to indulge below Cas’ waist, and the sight of his hot, engorged cock knocked the wind out of him.

 

“Cas, oh fuck,” Dean sputtered, lips trailing lower as he crawled further down the bed. “Please, I want to touch you, Cas. You gotta let me. Shit, I need to put my mouth on you.”

 

“Yes,” Cas gravelled, hand in Dean’s hair. “I want you to, Dean.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I have for a long time.”

 

Dean looked up from laying open mouthed kisses and sucks on Cas’ hip joint. “For real?”

 

“Of course.” Cas’ voice had a far-off quality to it, like he was nostalgic of every time they locked eyes. “Your soul is so beautiful, Dean. I wish you could see it. I knew I wanted you the moment I laid a hand on you in hell.” Cas moaned as Dean breathed on the length of his cock, like he was sizing him up. The proximity and anticipation made his head spin. 

 

Damn, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever heard. Both the reference to his resurrection and the little sounds he was making, if anyone were to ask. Clamping down on his thighs, Dean lowered his mouth onto Cas’ cock, revelling in the gasp heard from above as he wrapped his tongue around his head. Cas bucked up slightly, head fuzzy with need for more wet, more tongue, more warmth; and Dean hummed amusedly around him.

 

Opening his throat, Dean bobbed down on Cas until his nose met Cas’ pubic bone. As deep as Dean could swallow him, he couldn’t get enough, sucking and licking with tears streaming down his face. Cas huffed in approval, holding down Dean’s head and shallowly lifting his hips to push himself further down his throat.

 

Dean popped off with a pucker and wrapped his hands around Cas’ shaft. “Far as I’m concerned, you got dibs. You did save me, after all. You can do whatever you want with me, Cas.”

 

Eyes widening with intent, Cas sat up. Dean paused from his work and looked up, lashes framing his eyes and freckled cheeks, before Cas grabbed both shoulders and threw him onto his back.

 

“I love it when you do that,” Dean murmured. “Manhandle me. Hold me like you never want to lose me.”

 

“That would be an accurate conjecture.”

 

Dean chuckled as Cas hovered above him, but shouted in surprise when he felt hands wrapped around his aching cock. Cas jacked him sweet and slow, eliciting mumbled curses mixed with the angel’s name, but there was something different about it this time.

 

“What did you say?” Cas demanded, stilling his hands.

 

Dean whimpered at the loss of friction and shoved tiny thrusts against Cas’ fists.

 

Eyes darkening and mouth open with wonder, Cas thumbed over Dean’s slit to collect a bead of precome as his other hand wandered lower. At the sensation of Cas wetting the underside of his head and fondling his balls, Dean threw his head back and squinted his eyes shut. If this is what he got by giving Cas free range, what the hell had he been waiting for?

 

Fumbling under his pillow while Cas dragged a firm but gentle finger down his perineum, Dean presented a bottle of lubricant, the beginnings of a farouche smile inching across his face. Cas wetted his fingers with the liquid and pressed a digit mildly against Dean ass, which retracted at first touch but relaxed once Cas eased the muscle by lightly working over his rim. At first he inserted his index finger, barely to the first knuckle, and rested a beat to let Dean adjust. He leaned over the man and pressed warm, wanton kisses over the corners of his mouth.

 

“You are the most wondrous creation I have ever seen,” Cas muttered while working his finger in and out of Dean’s ass. “Not even angels who have seen God’s face compare to you. My profound bond. The righteous man.”

 

Dean blushed under the dumbfounding praise, but only responded in long moans and clawing at Cas’ defined chest, only to have his fingers drop from the sinful ways Cas made his limbs go weak. Cas had inserted a second finger now, reaching into his hole as far as he could go. Dean moved his hips in time with Cas’ thrusts, wishing for more but knowing it would be greedy to vocalize it.

 

Having Dean under him felt the most right he had ever experienced. Of all the times the stars aligned to bring about cosmically significant circumstances; for every carefully planned eclipse; of the countless wonders Cas had witnessed from the dawn of time, this was the most perfect arrangement of them all. Here, he would make Dean his. He had already laid claim to his soul, and now he would do the same to his body.

 

As three fingers pumped in and out, Dean said Cas’ name in breathy gasps. Cas had worked him open so well, scissoring him so his hole was as ready as possible for a much larger guest. Dean had never been so cared for, so waited on, and yet he grew impatient for his hole to be so abused he wouldn’t be able to walk straight. He needed Cas’ cock inside him like the air he breathed.

 

Cas removed his fingers with a wet sound and admired Dean’s ready hole as he slicked himself up. Dean was beautiful like this, spread out for him and muttering inaudibly as he waited. Slowly, he lowered himself into him, taking his time but not stopping until he was buried to the hilt. Letting out a contented sigh, Cas closed his eyes and savored the sensation of Dean engulfing this cock, so tight and warm.

 

In a silent plea for Cas to move, Dean wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled at his shoulders. Cas obliged, sliding himself out to the tip, then snapping his hips forward, his quick pace earning a gasp from Dean but exactly what he was hoping for. Dean didn’t want to feel like he could be easily broken. He needed to feel unbreakable.

 

Thrust by deepening thrust, Cas filled Dean over and over with vehemence. He grunted as Dean raised his hips to meet each movement, the two insatiably hungry for more of each other. The deeper Cas pushed himself into him, the closer Dean urged him to go. Mouths panting and hearts pulsing blood into their dicks, the two built each other up higher and higher.

 

Dean whispered something, Cas’ loud breathing drowning out the exact sound, but definitely three syllables.

 

“What, Dean?” Cas huffed, his own end in sight as his cock grew sensitive and twitchy. “What did you say?”

 

Dean held Cas’ face and made him look directly into his glassy green eyes.

 

“Castiel,” Dean said reverently. “You’re gorgeous, making me yours like this. I just… fuck.” In a moment like this, ‘Cas’ just didn’t cut it. This was an angel -- previous servant of heaven -- powerful enough to crush bones without even touching them -- a celestial being fucking him into next week so authoritatively; it was only fitting to use his full name.

 

“Castiel,” he called again, carefully enunciating every syllable.

 

Cas grunted as he plunged into Dean’s hole until his pelvis was flush with Dean’s ass. “Dean!” he yelled, spurting thick white come inside him. His spend oozed out and dripped onto the bed, but Cas held himself inside Dean until he had painted him with every drop he had. 

 

“Ah, so you like that, huh? When I use your given name?” Dean rumbled, high on the after-effects of being thoroughly fucked.

 

Instead of answering, Cas pulled out and immediately took Dean’s cock in his mouth, not giving him any time to whine about being suddenly empty. Dean shouted at the sudden stimulation, his own erection having been neglected over the course of the past few minutes. Precome had leaked all over his shaft, which Cas wrapped his tongue around before taking him as far in as possible without gagging.

 

Dean’s head shot up to witness the sight. No daydream in the world could accurately portray what it was like to have Cas’ deep blue eyes looking up at him while his lips were around his cock. He was even more breathtaking than he had imagined that time in his coma. The way his mouth stretched around him, his tongue toying at his slit and hands cupping his balls -- nothing compared to this. 

 

Already close by the time Cas finished, Dean was approaching his orgasm embarrassingly fast.

 

“Cas, I’m gonna... I’m… I’m close, Cas. Hey you don’t hav’ta keep sucking if you don’t want me to uh, oh shit!”

 

Cas sucked all the air out of his cheeks and took Dean in deeper, his tip hitting Cas’ throat, which he swallowed around to squeeze harder. He wanted Dean to come in his mouth. He could think of nothing better, especially after he had taken his cock so well. When Dean’s climax took him, Cas coughed at the strange sensation but relaxed enough for the rest of it to slide down his throat. Dean’s body shook as Cas milked him dry, letting out a fulfilled sigh when Cas pulled his head up with one last lick.

 

Dean pulled Cas up to eye level and gazed into his eyes, as if looking for something. A million praises laid just behind his lips, but which one first? Nothing would suffice. He had just gotten fucked by Cas, and the blue eyed wonder had the sex hair to prove it. Black locks stuck up in every direction, cheeks still flush with afterglow. His ridiculously sculpted body had made the most perfect anchor to hold onto as Dean received his love and adoration from below.

 

Where could he even begin to talk about this? Cas’ cock sliding in and out of his mouth was downright dirty; the best thing that had ever graced his lips. Having Cas inside him, uttering loving phrases and staring into his eyes like he never wanted to look away -- he had never been with anyone like that. Being so foreign, it frightened him at first, but that soon dissolved into acceptance and joy. Getting sucked off was the best ending to the best lay he’d ever had, but it being the same person who had given him so much attention beforehand… it hardly seemed fair.

 

Sated and sleepy, Dean cupped Cas’ jaw and smiled.

 

“Thank you,” he wisped, barely tonal enough to be heard. Dean couldn’t imagine the first reason why Cas would spoil him so, and he had never been one to thank his partner after sex, but this seemed appropriate. “I really needed that. From you, specifically.”

 

Cas smirked and planted a tiny kiss right on Dean’s nose. “I would do anything for you, Dean.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Would you do this again?”

 

Cas laid his forehead on Dean’s shoulder and hand on his chest. “Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

Before Michael, dusting was a way for Dean to unwind and focus on a simple task that the rest of the family let fall to the wayside. He could clear his mind, block the rest of the world out with some headphones and badass music, and keep the place clean. Three birds, one stone.

 

After Michael, dusting was ruined.

 

No rock group was loud enough to drown out the constant nagging in his head when he was totally alone. This was Jack’s job, while he had been gone. If he had died in that hospital, Jack would still be doing this job. And Jack would still be alive. He wondered what system Jack had adopted to most efficiently sweep through the bunker. Did he start at the front, or in one of the back rooms? Dean would have taught him everything he knew about dusting: starting high and working his way down; cleaning his duster periodically; deferring to the vacuum for particularly gnarly jobs. He was sure Jack had done the very best he could, the way he did everything else.

 

The way he  _ had done _ everything else.

 

Dropping the duster, Dean leaned against a bookshelf and rubbed his temple as a flashback reared up in the forefront of his mind. So many people, slumping over the church pews, cups making small bouncing noises against the carpet as they dropped. The light popping of plastic against textile echoed louder and louder in his brain, until his ears rang with it, and he collapsed to the floor covering them with his hands. He hummed loudly, hoping that would cancel out the distinct  _ plop  _ of cup after cup, victim after victim, all at his hands.

 

Another sound, muffled behind his cupped ears, repeated something unclear before someone touched his forearm. He jolted back. Dragging himself into a corner with his feet, he brought his knees to his chest and made himself as small as possible against the confusing noises coming from within and without. Falling cups puttered everywhere, no matter how tightly he pressed against his ears and wailed. Someone was beside him, trying to pull his attention away from the voices and cups and death, but he was in too deep. 

 

Smashing his eyes shut, he hoped for darkness but instead got a third-person look at Michael wearing his meat suit, instructing the congregation to take and drink. He realized he was standing -- how long had he been standing? -- and backed up into the upright piano, which clanged out a few notes. Dean’s eyes darted around for an escape, but every window and door in this particular flashback was missing. His eyes met Michael’s -- watching himself not as himself as weird -- and he saw the archangel using his face to raise an unnatural smirk with no light behind the eyes before raising his unpoisoned cup.

 

Michael turned back to the crowd and told them to drink, and Dean realized he was experiencing these people’s death in a loop. Plastic cups littered the floor, the sound a hundred times louder than anything else in the room. In a frenzy, he slammed against the place in the wall the door was supposed to be, but with no give. He reluctantly turned back around to the pews. More cups dropping. 

 

He couldn’t get out. Why couldn’t he get out? He wasn’t in a coma anymore, he should just be able to snap out of it, right? Spinning around, disoriented, Dean grew dizzy at the constant sound of cups hitting carpet until he realized he hadn’t even tried opening his eyes.

 

“Dean!” 

 

Michael’s mass suicide speech on repeat, he glanced to the side and saw Bee. More cups dropped in the background, a little softer this time. What was she doing in here?

 

“Dean, open your eyes.”

 

Eyes shooting open, Dean gasped as he slammed his head against a bookshelf. Groaning in pain, he sunk further into the corner to find he was still curled in fetal position. He jumped when he realized a hand was still touching him, but exhaled sharply when he saw it was Bee.

 

“What the hell?” he murmured, blinking away black spots clouding his vision.

 

“You’re alright,” Bee assured him, relieved to hear him speaking. She crouched nearby, careful not to crowd him. “You had a very vivid flashback.”

 

Dean rested his face on his arm, which was rested on his knee. He breathed deep and tried not to blink, terrified of what he would see if he closed his eyes for even a split second.

 

“I, uh,” he raised his head and licked his lip. “I don’t know what… Ugh. Shit.”

 

Bee sat down on against the shelf adjacent to Dean and rested her own arms on her knees. “He’s a nasty bastard,” she admitted. “He knows exactly how to get under someone’s skin.” 

 

With no pressure to talk, but no discouragement not to, Dean nodded and swallowed. “I keep having these things and I don’t know how to make them stop. I just want them to stop, dammit.”

 

Bee waited for him to continue, but was met with his irritated, guttural sigh.

 

“He had me strapped up to one of those angel mind-bendy things,” Bee explained. She had seen his nightmare; it was only fair for him to know about hers. “The one with the metal rods. And um,” she paused to calm her breathing, “he wanted me to be his vessel, for as long as I’d last. He used that thing on me to see into my mind and force a ‘yes’ out of me.”

 

Dean turned toward her, the thought making him feel ill. He had said yes without a hint of persuasion. How perverted could someone be, to take someone unwilling and twist their words around?

 

“You know what though?” Bee confessed. “I kinda wanted to say yes. Not enough to ever say it, but man, he tore me apart. He figured me out, and humiliated me, and --” She drew in a shaky breath. “He made me so miserable, I sort of wanted out. And I know that’s unforgivable, and horrible, but… you weren’t there, so you don’t understand.” She raised her head and faced him. “Except, you  _ do  _ understand.”

 

Dean’s eyes fell and he slowly nodded. Michael knew how to drive people to that point. He strategized, planned, watched, studied, prepared… and then striked. A younger version of him might have held it against her, but not present-day Dean. He knew far too well what he was capable of when he was cornered, manipulated, and lost all hope.

 

“I fought him so hard,” said Bee. “But that teeny tiny sliver of ‘yes’,” she held her index finger and thumb a hair apart, “that’s what he used for the mind control device. He dug around in my brain until he found it, then started spreading it throughout my whole body. It took every ounce of will within me to keep from…” Bee stopped, leaning her head in her palm. She hated remembering this. She hated that Dean remembered that church meeting.

 

“So if you’re worried somebody’s gonna get judgy for what you did back there,” she continued, “it ain’t gonna be me. I’ve known you longer than anybody and I’ve seen some shit.”

 

Dean’s face shifted. He was more relaxed and grounded, so he eased himself to his feet and picked up the fallen duster. 

 

“How’s Cas?” Bee asked, raising herself and quite content with leaving the unpleasant conversation behind.

 

“Uh,” Dean replied, “he’s… good.” He leaned from one foot to the other and looked down, the floor suddenly fascinating.

 

Bee raised her brow. “Mmm hmm,” she hummed, about to excuse herself to go find Charlie. She was looking for her when she came across Dean, and would soon join her for more fight training. If he only knew how transparent he was to her, he would just cut to the chase and be honest about himself and Cas.

 

“What?” he defended, holding his palms up in feigned honesty. “How are you and Charlie?”

 

Ah, changing the subject. Classic. “She’s teaching me how to kick ass. We saved Jody and the girls from some Michael Toothpicks. I’ve got more training oh, ten minutes ago, but --”

 

“Wait wait wait, hold up,” Dean interjected. “Michael  _ what? _ ”

 

Following a loud squeak and clang from the other room, Sam stormed into the space full of bookshelves with a thick book under his arm.

 

“Dean, you won’t have to let Michael back in and stab yourself. I’ve found another way,” he announced, his eyes lit up with hope.

 

“I’m sorry, you were going to do what?” Bee roared, a disapproving glare sending Dean back a small step. When he gulped and looked between her and Sam, she took another step towards him. “Dean?”

 

He took another step back. “Look, it was just an idea. Right? Sammy?”

 

Bee stepped forward again. 

 

Dean stepped back. “Sam, a little help.”

 

Sam breathed out of his nose with a small frown. “He wants to take down Michael with the archangel blade. He would let him back in and run himself through before Michael has the chance to take away his control.”

 

Bee stopped walking forward when Dean backed into a wall of shelves. “Okay,” she responded, not at all amused. “I’m not even going to list the reasons I hate that idea. What’ve you got for us, Sam?”

 

“ _ Our _ Michael,” Sam explained, the book in his hand moving with his voice. “The one I threw into the cage with myself and Lucifer. He’s still down there.”

 

Bee and Dean exchanged an unsettled glance, faces growing pale, then slowly turned back to Sam.

 

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean acknowledged. “We forgot about Adam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I felt so bad about my long hiatus that I decided to post two chapters in one day! What is this sorcery?! Even better, I included some smut! Everyone voted for bottom!Dean, so that's what happened. Thanks to everyone for voting, and don't worry, that's not all the smut I have planned. Feel free to say hi in the comments! I love talking with my readers :)


	12. Do You Want to Know a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has been harboring a secret that could change everything. Now that Sam has other plans to defeat Michael, does Cas regret his and Dean's night of passion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand there are varying theories surrounding Adam Milligan's soul and whether it's still in the cage or in heaven. Although I believe his soul is in heaven, this story arc focuses more on the archangel possessing him. As with most spiritual beings in the show, I am assuming Michael's physical appearance to be that of his most recent vessel (Adam). So that's why Adam Milligan is tagged as a character:)

“Any progress on the cage spell?”

 

“I’m getting to it, Samuel,” Rowena’s voice teetered while hunched over ancient text in the bunker library.

 

“It should be somewhat like the one we used a while back, when we tried talking to Lucifer through the cage. Right?”

 

“Yes, m’boy,” Rowena assured. It was the sixth time that week he came checking her progress, but she was determined not to show nettled she was at the constant interruptions.

 

“One question, though. When we were in the cage fighting Lucifer, I don’t remember seeing Michael.” Sam squinted slightly, the thought never having come to him before.

 

“That’s because the spell enabled us to interact with Lucifer specifically. The cage’s inhabitants are cloaked by default.”

 

Sam nodded, content with the report. “I’m going for a grocery run. Any requests?”

 

“Does your local grocer carry black salt, desert rose selenite, or dragon’s blood?”

 

Sam huffed a small laugh and started towards the front door. “Tell Dean I’m not forgetting the pie this time, if you see him.”

 

After Sam shut the weighty bunker door, Dean peaked out from behind a corner and pulled up a chair across from Rowena. She smiled slyly as he perched himself backwards on the seat, resting his arms and chin on the top rail.

 

“So,” he piped up, “any headway on the Jack thing?”

 

Rowena sighed candidly and gingerly turned the worn page in her book. “I’m doing my best, dear. Sam will grow suspicious of me if I’m not devoting enough time to his project.”

 

“I know that,” Dean acknowledged. “I’m just wondering if you’ve got anything for me. Anything at all.”

 

Rowena pursed her lips, her limited information groundbreaking but so sparse it wouldn’t appear as such. “It was a good idea to keep the body,” she began. “We’ll need that for sure. As for the rest, well, no one has ever attempted to bring a nephilim back from the dead. Some of the ingredients will need to be adjusted.”

 

Dean rested his head thoughtfully against the back of the chair. “Sammy doesn’t know about Jack’s body, does he?”

 

“No,” she said. “Sam has enough on his plate. This stays between us.”

 

Jack’s funeral had taken place the day after Dean woke up. Refusing to speak had made Dean unsuspecting and he knew it. Hours before Jack’s body was to be burned, he sent a text to the redheaded witch:  _ Save the body. I want to figure out a way to bring him back. _

  
Within minutes, the reply came: _Both impossible._ _Whose body will we burn tonight? And no such spell exists._

 

Immediately, Dean spilled his secret:  _ I’ve got another body already wrapped up in his place. _

 

Rowena’s eyes widened at the news. What innocent person had Dean killed in order to spare Jack’s corpse? 

 

Not waiting for a reply, Dean sent another text:  _ Somebody died in the ICU the same day I got out. Fellow by the name of Nick. You know him as Lucifer’s old vessel. _

 

Heart racing at the thought of Lucifer’s red-eyed face, Rowena exhaled a shaky breath and stumbled across the keyboard, fixing spelling errors several times before sending:  _ That doesn’t mean I can bring him back. _

 

_ Can you try? _

 

Rowena rested her forehead in her hand. She was just about scunnered with their wild ideas. 

 

_ I’ll do my best. _

 

And so Rowena found herself in the middle of one brother hiding things from the other, as usual. She was closer to finishing Sam’s spell than she was letting on, but “under promise, over deliver” was her motto, when it came to crafting around something as dangerous as hell’s cage. With Sam’s request completed, she would soon be able to devote all her attention to this impossible reach into the Empty.

 

The problem was, no one can just tap on the Empty’s door and ask to speak with Jack. All that is below is tied to Chuck’s power, which is great for praying or summoning demons, because everything in those places stem from him. God holds no power over the Empty, so nothing he created is made of the right stuff to tap into that plane. The only thing that Rowena knew of that could cut through the noise of the Empty was Jack. How could they rescue someone from a place if the key to it was the person thrown in?

 

The shrill of Dean’s phone ringing interrupted Rowena’s deep thought.

 

“Charlie?” he answered.

 

“How’s it going, bitches?”

 

“Ah, you know,” Dean puffed. “Just trying to delve into a strangely specific corner of hell to retrieve an archangel that’s been chillin’ down there for centuries, in dog years. Not to mention he’s probably still wearing our long lost half brother, which is going to make the family reunion kind of awkward. Especially considering the fact that he wanted to wear me first.”

 

“So, same old, same old?” she added.

 

“Basically,” he answered. “How ‘bout you and Bobby, and Bee?”

 

A faint voice joked from Charlie’s end, “Me and Bobby McGee!”

 

Dean laughed lightly at Bee’s Janis Joplin reference. “Alright, Charlie. Tell me something good.”

 

“Things are actually looking up. Jody and the girls are meeting up with Donna to start setting traps for Michael’s designated survivors in Minnesota. Jody was just tickled pink to meet apocalypse world Bobby, you should’ve seen her. He got super offended when she accidentally called him the town drunk. Anyway,” she elaborated, “We’ve taken out about a hundred grace-wielding humans so far, with a promising projection.”

 

“Great,” Dean remarked, genuinely impressed. “Sam’s bringing home pie; you two should stop by.”

 

“Wow, sharing your pie? Things really are changing.”

 

“I never said I was sharing it,” he defended, standing to his feet. “I just meant our recent victories are celebratory and pie is also a celebratory dessert. So we should all touch base and celebrate. But I’m eating the pie.”

 

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Winchester. Smell ya later.”

 

“Behave.”

 

“Pssh, I wouldn’t dream of it!” Once she ended the call, Charlie turned her attention to Bee, who was eating a hot bowl of chili beside her at the diner they popped into on the way to their next job. The booth was cramped and sticky, but it was a place to eat. And neither of them minded the close proximity.

 

“We going home after this next stop?” Bee asked in between spoon fulls.

 

“If you’re in the mood for pie, Dean isn’t sharing.”

 

“He’ll share,” Bee promised. “He’ll guilt himself into it. But even if he doesn’t, I’m a strong, independent woman who can get her own pie.”

 

“Damn right,” Charlie grinned while picking up her ham sandwich. “Oh by the way, when you told everyone in Cas’ car you wanted to try pie, you know they totally thought you were talking about something else, right?”

 

Bee blinked twice, then scoffed. “Yeah, of course.”

 

Charlie burst out laughing, thankfully mostly done with her bite. “I mean, I don’t blame you. Sometimes I get a hankering for pie, too.”

 

“I never get a hankering for sex, though,” Bee shrugged.

 

“Sometimes I get a hankering for both,” Charlie admitted. “But to each their own!”

 

Bee blew on her next spoonful of chili. “What if you wanted to date someone,” she worded slowly, “but they never wanted to actively pursue… pie?”

 

Charlie turned to her with brows furrowed.

 

“Let’s say,” Bee continued, “the person you like doesn’t get a hankering for it, but you do, and --”

 

“Bee,” Charlie interrupted, setting down her dinner. “We aren’t really talking about pie anymore, are we?”

 

Stabbing her iced tea with a straw, Bee shook her head briefly and shrugged. “Just wanted to be clear on what we expect out of each other.”

 

“You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. Ever, with anyone. And especially not with me.”

 

Bee smiled and let her straw sink into her drink. “I know that. And believe me, nobody’s talking me into anything I’m not interested in. I just wanted to get boundaries figured out between us.”

 

Charlie nodded and turned in her seat so she could see Bee’s face better. “Actually, that’s a really good idea. Tell you what, let’s play a game. I give you a choice between a slice of pie and something else, and you choose!”

 

“Okay,” Bee smirked.

 

Charlie thought for a moment. “Pie or… cuddling?”

 

“Cuddling,” Bee replied without missing a beat.

 

“Okay, coolio.” Charlie liked this game. This was fun. “Pie or dudes?”

 

“Definitely pie. I don’t like guys that way. At all.”

 

“So, pie or girls? Just, within the parameters you’ve already indicated. Not in a sexy way.”

 

“Girls,” Bee replied after the caveat.

 

Charlie bit her lip and breathed deep, her heart skipping a beat as she prepared for the next question.

 

“Pie or kiss?”

 

Bee glanced up, a soft pink blush flushing Charlie’s pale cheeks. Their eyes wandered to each other’s lips, and time stood still as Charlie waited for Bee’s reply.

 

Already hip to hip, Bee leaned in to close the distance. “Kiss,” she answered, and tilted her mouth to meet Charlie’s.

 

* * *

 

The relief stemming from Sam reaching out to their world’s Michael to spare Dean was short lived. So many things could go wrong. What if Michael didn’t want to help? What if the spell went wrong? What if Lucifer corrupted him during their time locked up together? What if their Michael and apocalypse Michael hit it off and galloped off into the sunset sipping murder martinis and joining forces to bring about the end of humanity?

 

Moreover, it planted a seed of guilt in his soul that grew like a suffocating weed. Had he taken advantage of Cas? Did he want to get dicked down just because he thought he was going to die? No, that can’t be true. He had thought long and hard about crossing that line with him. If a little motivation was all it took to jumpstart it, that was fine, right?

 

Dean had lost count of the times he looked a little too long at Cas’ lips, milked lingering glances at his form under a dress shirt or even that stupid trench, and hidden boners under tables when he was looking especially squeaky clean. So really, this was a long time coming… Wasn’t it? Also, the smell of Cas right out of the shower: There were no words. Was he secretly using different soap than Dean? Did his unique bodily scent mix with it in a way that drove Dean crazy? Or did he smell that good, too?

 

With a knock-knock here, and a “hey Cas” there, ol’ McDean-O’s ‘bout to get himself some dick underneath a shower head. The steamy bathroom mirrors and elevated temperature beg the question: Is Cas actually trying to boil himself alive in here? 

 

Dean removed his clothes while listening to Cas hum to himself. Although disjointed, with only the first line of a verse and the chorus, Dean was fairly certain it was Saturday In the Park by Chicago. He smiled to himself. If nothing else, he taught the angel good taste in music.

 

“Hey Cas, I uh,” Dean’s words trailed off as his breath left him. He had pulled back the shower curtain just enough to look at him while he talked to him, but the sight left him speechless. Cas’ hair was sticking out everywhere, a damp mess after a good wash and running his fingers through it backwards. His cheekbones shone with tiny water droplets that splashed from a stray water stream in the shower head.

 

And for the love of all that was holy, that body. With a lingering poof of suds on his arm and hot water streaming down his neck… chest… stomach… Oh. Standing proudly in an arch against his lower belly, his cock curved in a particularly filthy way that made Dean want it inside of him, like, an hour ago. 

 

“Are you going to come in, Dean?” Cas broke the silence as he wrung out his washcloth. 

 

“Oh, I’m coming alright,” he muttered under his breath. The heat and the steam and Cas with wet skin… It was too much. His eyes ran the length of his body again and the beginning of a knowing smirk tugged at Cas’ mouth.

 

Sliding the curtain open more, Cas grabbed Dean’s wrists and pulled him in. With a shocked grunt, Dean caught his footing and leaned onto the tile wall as he adjusted to the stupidly hot water.

 

“Geez, Cas,” Dean hissed, reaching for the temperature handle. “You trying to burn our skin off?” He moved the control a hair and stuck his head under the stream.

 

“Now you’ve made it too cold,” Cas argued, turning it back the other direction. “Besides, it wasn’t this hot when I first got in. I worked up a tolerance.”

 

“A tolerance? How long have you been in here?”

 

Cas exhaled through his nose, rinsing the stray bit of soap off his arm. “What does it matter? You and Sam don’t pay utilities.”

 

“We might if the county starts noticing how much electricity you’re using for these long, hot showers.”

 

“No, I’ve checked. This bunker is in a blackout location. It doesn’t exist, according to the government.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes so hard, he might have sprained his optic nerve. “Fine,” he sighed, backing Cas into a corner, away from the direct line of spray. “Then I guess the electric company won’t mind if we do this for a while.” He kissed Cas hard and heavy, hands cornering him in on cold tile. Cas took Dean’s face in his hands and deepened the kiss, their lips already slick with shower water and mouths warm from the steam.

 

Dean ground upwards against Cas, who grunted hotly and dug his fingers into the small of Dean’s back before pulling him closer aggressively. Their cocks brushed as their hips rocked against each other, the heat and the friction and the  _ sounds those two were making  _ enlarging their throbbing erections.

 

Dean tossed up a flaccid arm to point the shower head towards their corner, and moaned blissfully as the pelting water hit between them. “Let’s turn this up a notch, shall we?” he gravelled as he toyed with the temperature control.

 

“What about the electricity bill?” Cas taunted, running his fingers across Dean’s chest and shoulders as the temperature rose. He couldn’t help but notice how much healthier Dean looked now that he had been at home eating real food.

 

“Shut up,” Dean snapped before taking Cas’ bottom lip between his teeth.

 

Cas’ eyes closed as he groaned and rolled his hips against Dean, their cocks red and leaking between their bodies. Their kisses had grown open-mouthed and sloppy as their attention wandered to the carnal hunger burning between their legs. The steady shower stream provided a blanket of warmth and light massage of water pressure that egged them on and heated their entire bodies.

 

“Touch me,” said Cas as he pulled away to look into Dean’s eyes, lashes sticking and darkened by the water. “Touch me, Dean.”

 

Water ran off Dean’s nose and chin as his eyes dropped between them. “Yes sir,” he yielded thickly. He looked up to meet Cas’ chillingly domineering glare as he wrapped his hands around his cock, noting the gasp he earned by twisting just slightly as he slowly jacked him. Faster and faster Dean worked him over, revelling in how Cas leaned weakly against the wall with his mouth open and eyes fluttering shut. He knew he was close when Cas began groping for the wall, one knee threatening to give out.

 

“Dean,” Cas threw his eyes open while his voice cracked. “I’m going to… I’m… I…”

 

“Me too, Cas, fuck this is so hot, watching you get all worked up,” Dean huffed, his own cock aching against his stomach, bobbing to and fro as his body moved to pleasure Cas. He could come right now, untouched, just by watching Cas like this. He was absolutely stunning.

 

Cas pried Dean’s fingers off and took both of their lengths in his own hands, stroking them at a deliberate pace. 

 

“Oh shit,  _ shit _ ,” Dean hissed as he stumbled forward when his cock finally got the attention it needed. Drops of water fell between them as he rested his palms on the shower wall, the tile his only support as black spots clouded his vision as he rapidly approached release.

 

When Cas came with a loan groan, Dean watched in wonder as his come splattered over his fingers and each other’s cocks. Seeing Cas fall completely apart in a sweaty, steamy shower while squeezing Dean at the same time was enough to push him over the edge. 

 

“Fuck Cas,” Dean grumbled, plastering his hands over Cas’ and thrusting into their fists until he was totally spent. It was Cas’ turn to stare, and he did like he was watching the birth of the universe. Watching Dean come in his hands was immensely fulfilling. Knowing it was he that brought him to that point, that he could do this to him, sent a rush of pride through Cas’ bones.

 

After Dean backed off enough for Cas to unplaster himself from the tile wall, Dean felt that familiar tug of guilt at his conscience. How dare he enjoy himself? How dare he enjoy Cas? He had caused nothing but pain for Cas the past few weeks and probably the past ten years; he just hadn’t been cruel enough to say anything. As far as Dean was concerned, he had no right to assume anything about their… relationship?... after Sam brought up their world’s Michael.

 

Oh god. Did Cas even want him anymore? Dean just stepped into the shower like he belonged there. Was Cas a fully willing participant? They hadn’t really spoken about, well, anything, since their night of cosleeping turned into the single best night of Dean’s life.

 

Dean wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror with his towel, the motion making a squeaking noise. “Cas, I’m sorry,” he apologized.

 

Cas had bent forward to rub his towel over his hair, but stood upright in confusion. “I don’t understand,” he said with a slight frown.

 

“This, what we’re doing,” he replied while gesturing between the two of them. The air was still hot so he didn’t bother wrapping the towel around his waist, opting instead to tangle his hands in it so he wouldn’t flail around nervously. “Look, I don’t regret the other night one bit. We both thought that was my last night on earth. Now that you know I’m gonna stick around, I don’t blame you if you, you know.”

 

Cas furrowed his brows. “No Dean, I don’t know.”

 

“If you don’t wanna be with me because I’m staying alive for at least a few more days longer than anticipated --”

 

Cas’ icy glare stopped him in mid-sentence.

 

“I didn’t have sex with you because I thought you were going to die,” Cas explained, trying not to allow his shock and disappointment bleed into his tone. How could Dean think so little of himself? No, wrong question. How could he allow Dean to assume that? If that’s what Dean gathered after their night together, then Cas had truly failed.

 

“Uh, oh.” Dean glanced to the side, the unblinking eye contact with Cas starting to intimidate him. “It’s just that, I know I don’t deserve like, any of this. So uh, it’s okay if you don’t forgive me.”

 

Cas’ heart sank. Of course he was still blaming for something out of his control, and of course he was still trying to punish himself. The worst part was that when Dean would see him, he’d think of Jack. Every time. And there was nothing Cas could do about it.

 

“Dean, I seem to recall Sam telling me that when I came back from the Empty, you called that a win,” Cas mentioned.

 

“Yeah,” Dean smiled. “Yeah Cas, you’re my win.”

 

Cas nodded and wrapped the towel around himself. “When I laid my hand on you in hell, you truly believed you didn’t deserve to be saved. You think so little of yourself. I’ve worked very hard over the years to try and change that. I’ve given everything for you, and it’s not for what you can do for me in return. Although heaven is supposed to be holy and I’ve been in the company of the supposed best of the heavenly host,  _ you’re  _ the one that has made me better. So when you broke free of Michael and woke up from that coma,” he finished, “that was my win, Dean. You are my win.”

 

Even if someone had written it in the sky beforehand, nothing could have prepared Dean for hearing Cas say those words. Mouth trying to talk but the words caught in his throat, he stood wordless, swallowing a sob and waiting for someone to awaken him from this. Could this be? Could he mean that much to someone? Why him? What did he ever do?

 

Dean wanted to lighten the mood with a joke about where Cas had been all his life, or how he should’ve told Cas how he felt a long time ago, but none of it would come. Instead, he wrapped his arms around him and stayed there with no fear of lingering too long. Never in his life had Dean felt so cherished, so wanted, so  _ loved _ . Having that place in someone’s heart, especially Cas, was overwhelming. He felt something wet his cheek before he realized he was crying.

 

“Shit, Cas. I guess we’re both winners then, huh?” his voice shook, arms still tightly holding on.

 

Cas smiled against Dean’s neck. “Yes, we are. Please never forget that.”

* * *

 

Listen to [Do You Want to Know a Secret](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6ZNwD5R7i0) by the Beatles

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! I wanted to put more in this chapter, but this last scene ended so beautifully, I didn't want to spoil it by starting up another. If you have any theories or favorite parts, please let me know! What do you think Adam!Michael is going to think about Apocalypse!Michael? Do you think Dean's plan is going to work? Do I have any more pLoT tWiStS planned ????


	13. Gimme Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean receive an alarming message from Charlie and Bee. Why has this nest of vampires decided to go on the offensive, and what do they have to do with Michael?

Dean sat at the kitchen table visibly distracted, lips swollen from kisses and cheeks still flush. Sam had already plopped the flat, white box in front of him, but it took fingers snapping in front of his face to break away from the replay of his and Cas’ shower in his mind’s eye.

 

“Earth to Dean,” Sam repeated. “You’re welcome, for the pie.”

 

“Oh,” Dean puffed while jiggling the rest of the hot, sweaty images out of his head. “Thanks, man.” He popped the lid off and let the aroma hit him in the face. It was blackberry. Man, this would go great with some vanilla ice cream.

 

Sam had barely left the kitchen when a ping had him reaching for his phone. It was a text from Bee:  _ Jumped by some vamps. Sending location _ .

 

“Hey, we gotta go,” Sam stated. “Charlie and Bee are asking for backup.”

 

Dean grumbled over his untouched pie before the realization hit him that this was his first hunt in months. The bat signal was up. He was answering the call. He was getting back out there. His head was in the game. He was doing this. He was going to be okay.

 

* * *

 

“For the life of me,” Bee chided, “I can’t understand why you’d send him a text revealing what you actually are. You do understand they own machetes, right?” 

 

“We had to make it believable,” one of the vampires replied with a casual shrug. She plopped the phone on Bee’s lap, which didn’t do her much good, considering the fact that she and Charlie were tied up back to back on a support beam in a barn.

 

Looking down the barrel of a pistol, Bee observed as the other vampire awaited orders, his fangs extended and eyes corybantic. He was the newest one, she supposed. He seemed… hungry. Probably hadn’t fed yet.

 

“Still, you could’a said anything. Werewolves, fairies, wendigos, mothman.”

 

“Bigfoot,” Charlie piped up.

 

“Your stealth game is weak.”

 

“I don’t have to be stealthy,” the female hissed in Bee’s face, her latest kill still lacing her breath. “I’m faster and stronger than you and your friends.”

 

“Okay, two -- no -- three things, actually,” Bee began as she counted on her fingers the best she could being tied up. “One, do you ever brush your teeth? Holy Jesus. Two, you must be new here, because you don’t have to be stronger or faster to win a fight. Lastly, I’m pretty sure I’m actually stronger and faster than you. So you can do whatever you want with that.”

 

The leader threw her head back in laughter. Her newbie chuckled to himself, but cowered back when she shot him a glare. 

 

“Oh, did I mention you just texted Sam Winchester?” Bee added, as if an afterthought. “Not that it matters, ‘cause I’m the one that’s busting us outta here. But whatever, I guess.” Hidden between her and Charlie’s backs, Bee unsheathed a small knife and began sawing away at their bounds in tiny strokes. 

 

The vampires reacted more calmly than expected. Bee’s phone ringing interrupted the stare down, and the female vampire ordered, “Say one word out of line, and my lovely assistant here blows your brains out.” She pressed the green button and placed it to Bee’s ear.

 

“Mr. Dubs,” Bee greeted. “You and Sam en route?”

 

“Yeah, we’re almost there,” Dean replied, taking a bite of a slim jim. Sam was gnawing at beef jerky they had thrown into a snack bag before leaving. “You two okay? I thought you guys were out trapping Michael’s little bitches.”

 

“It’s all good,” Bee assured with a smile. “Just stumbled across the wrong crowd, is all. This place is a real funky town, ya know.”

 

Dean’s countenance fell. Stepping on the accelerator in Cas’ pathetic excuse for a car, he shot a glance at Sam, who looked back between chews with a raised brow. 

 

“We’ll be right there,” he promised ending the call. “Sam, we gotta be ready for a trap.”

 

Sam swallowed the softened piece of meat. “Huh?”

 

“She called funky town,” Dean deadpanned. “She’s got a gun to her head.”

 

* * *

 

Their ropes were slowly becoming a mess of frayed edges as Charlie and Bee awaited a sign of the boys’ arrival. Their captors spoke with seven other vamps going to and from the barn, as Bee had counted, and she suspected at least two more lying in wait for Sam and Dean. 

 

“Riddle me this,” said Charlie to the leader of the nest, who was now pacing back and forth to pass the time. “Since you weren’t totally shocked you had summoned the Winchesters, what are they to you? If you know who they are, you know how royally screwed you’re about to get.”

 

“The archangel Michael is planning on killing off the majority of the human population,” she replied. “We need our food supply to survive. If my nest and I offer him a gift, we might be able to negotiate a deal to keep a few thousand reserved for breeding and slaughtering purposes.”

 

“Blood rations co-op, I likey,” Charlie nodded. Bee had definitely cut away just enough to rip through. “But I like our idea better. We’re planning on killing him, not tiptoeing around him.”

 

“Michael is an unstoppable force. The end of the world as we know it is inevitable. We might as well try to survive in it.”

 

“The vamps over in my old world,” Charlie spouted off, “are nasty. They look like orcs from Lord of the Rings, malnourished and always hangry. You wouldn’t even recognize them as one of your own. Michael isn’t going to honor any deal he might swing with you. He does what he wants and everything else is disposable.”

 

“Walk away from this,” Bee warned above the faint sound of feet scrambling frantically outside. “This isn’t your fight.”

 

The nest leader leaned down into Bee’s face once more, her newest turn still pointing his pistol. “And why would I do that?”

 

“Because I can do this.” Bee swung her arms out and lunged up, tearing the ropes off with a ripping sound. She slammed the female vamp into the male one behind her, who shot off several rounds in confusion. If the leader had been human, she would’ve been shot to death instantly, but instead she was just pissed. Whipping the thick rope around both vampires’ heads, Bee took an end in each hand and yanked the crossed cables with brutal force, severing their heads and sending them rolling.

 

At the sound of Sam and Dean yelling at each other from beyond the barn doors, Bee and Charlie leapt over the bodies and charged. Not bothering with the lock, Bee barrelled through the wall with the force of 275 horses, sending dirt and splinters flying.

 

Stepping out of the settling dust, the two were met with the sight of two hunters verses nine very angry vampires. The blood on Sam’s machete and discarded body between them and the car must have hurt their feelings. Jumping into the fight, Charlie tackled one of them to the ground and Dean tossed her an extra blade. Bee picked up the six foot wide chunk of barn wall she had knocked off, fractured edges still littering the ground with bits of wood, and trotted in a semi circle until she was facing the fight scene with the barn in the background.

 

Staying clear of the boys and Charlie, Bee bolted forward with the wall segment at neck level. The splintered wood caught three unsuspecting vamps, dragging them screaming all the way to the barn. Their voices were silenced all at once as Bee crushed their necks between the slab of wooden beams and the abused cowshed.

 

Glancing up from the shoulders that, up until one second ago, held a head, Dean noticed one of the vampires running towards Bee with a nasty looking knife. Although Dean didn’t know how much damage something like that could do on someone like her, he didn’t want to stand around and find out. He stumbled over a fallen body, not taking his eyes off her.

 

“Bee, look out!” he hollered over the sounds of slicing flesh and growls.

 

Whipping around, Bee dropped the massive piece of barn wall and ducked right when the attacker swung for her. Taking his clenched fist in her own, she twisted until he let out a pained grunt and dropped the knife. She kicked him to the ground and thrust it into his throat, lifting and pushing the knife through his neck in long, deliberate strokes. This sure would be easier with a bigger blade. And it was dull. What an amateur.

 

Bee’s attention was averted when she saw another vamp right behind Dean with a car battery-sized rock lifted above his head. Leaving her project on the ground to garble in his own blood, she hurdled herself into Dean’s space. Grabbing the back of his head, she pushed him down, bending him at the waist out of the direct path of the strike. She covered his neck and head with that arm and blocked his back with her body as she braced her other hand for the rock that came crashing down.

 

It hurt like a son of a bitch, but when the rock bounced off of her, the assaulting vampire’s eyes widened with terror. Bee stood upright and twirled the vampire by his collar until he was disoriented, then took his head in a tight loop between her elbow and side and squeezed until he was choking.

 

“You gonna tell us if there are any more of you little fuckwads roaming around these woods?” Dean presented, pointing his machete. “Or are you gonna cry about it?”

 

The vamp showed his fangs and spat in Dean’s general direction, which was probably supposed to hit his face, but instead arched and fell like a cat trying and failing to jump from the couch to a counter. “Fuck you!” he jeered, a trail of spit falling from his lip.

 

Bee tightened her grip on his neck, the motions slow and fluid until the vamp knelt gagging and writhing tightly between her arm and lower waist. Then in one wave from her wrist to her shoulder, she sliced his head from his shoulders, both halves of him collapsing to the ground in heaps. Her side and arm were drenched in his blood, and she shook the excess off her fingers in detest.

 

Dean looked between her bloodied arm, which had just decapitated a vampire from sheer force, and her face, and he couldn’t decide whether to be completely freaked out or to high five her.

 

“Thank you,” Bee offered. She motioned to the vamp still clamoring on the ground like a beheaded snake, which she wouldn’t have known about if he hadn’t warned her.

 

“Yeah, ditto,” Dean replied, nodding to the two pieces of sharp-toothed hissy bloodsucker bluntly separated beside Bee.

 

The two quickly rejoined Sam and Charlie, who were left with two last especially persistent ones. They circled around each other, like some kind of dance to the death.

 

“You want an extra blade?” Dean asked Bee.

 

Marching past them, she approached Cas’ car and tore the hood off. “I’m good,” she answered, then knocked down one of the last vamps with a  _ boing  _ of head meeting metal, sending him to the ground in a dizzy. She raised the hood, front end down, and shoved it into the ground over his waiting neck.

 

After Sam took out the last one, the four breathed easier and piled into the car after Bee reattached the hood.

 

“You think Cas will notice?” she asked Charlie quietly in the backseat.

 

“Yeah, Bee, I’m pretty sure he’ll notice a huge blood splatter and finger-shaped dents on the hood,” Charlie mumbled. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, though. I’ll give you that.”

 

Bee sat quietly for a moment as they drove past fields and farm houses. “Did I do okay, though?” she inquired mildly.

 

Charlie laughed to herself. “Yes, darling. You did.”

 

The trip home was slightly amended with a quick stop by the closest Biggerson’s. Although they attempted to wash up in the bathrooms before sitting at the bar, there was no hiding the glaring bloodstain taking up half of Bee’s clothes from the armpit down. Sam offered his plaid shirt as a cover up, which she accepted, which left him in jeans and a tight v-neck. Several heads in the restaurant turned, to which Sam cleared his throat and tried to ignore.

 

Bee sat between Charlie and an empty stool, which a woman with falsies and smoker’s lips took and immediately started a conversation. Bee listened, of course, as the woman railed off about her cheating husband and children that turned out so differently than she was expecting. Well, she wasn’t sure he was cheating; it was just that so many truck drivers took escorts on their long trips away from home. And come to find out, her children actually weren’t failures; they were just being strong, independent thinkers apart from her vision for them.

 

“What about you, honey?” she asked after Bee pointed out without saying outright that her children were actually adults and could do whatever the hell they wanted. “You got any problems?”

 

Bee raised her brows and wondered just how long this woman had. Although she couldn’t disclose a single one, she was already counting them off like sheep. Rogue archangel hunting her down, Dean in danger of getting repoed, Jack’s death, millions of questions that would never be answered, her constant state of existential crisis… You know, normal stuff.

 

“Any kids?” the woman prodded, taking a cigarette out of her purse.

 

“No,” Bee replied simply.

 

“Ah, so you don’t have any problems,” She muttered nonchalantly as she lit her smoke under the bar counter.

 

Bee glared at the woman in shock. “I have plenty,” she defended, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I just haven’t had any come out of my vagina.”

 

The woman coughed on the inhale and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. She threw her purse strap over her shoulder and slid out of her seat. “I can’t believe she just said that,” she said to herself, purposefully loud enough for Bee to hear. “Can you believe the nerve of some people?”

 

“Hey!” Bee called as the smoker turned to leave, stopping her in her tracks. “That’s not the only way to be a woman, you know. I can do other stuff just fine.”  _ Like behead eight vampires and save the fucking world _ , she added silently.

 

The false lash donning woman spun around, smoke in hand. “What about your poor mother, huh? Don’t you think she wants grandkids?”

 

Bee furrowed her brows and leaned forward, not entirely sure she heard that right. Even without parents, that was offensive. This person in front of her had no idea what Bee had just done to make a difference in the world. How unselfish and brave she was. How much she struggled through life  _ without  _ the taunting of ignorant busybodies.

 

“I think demanding your kids to make grandkids is a pretty shitty thing to do,” Bee finally answered, avoiding the subject of her lack of bloodline altogether.

 

“Well who’s gonna take care of you when you’re old?” she retorted. This was obviously not the only time she had asked someone that question.

 

“The tax dollars of those who come after me,” Bee said as the woman blew a plume of smoke in her face. “You had kids so you’d have caretakers when you’re old and moldy? Yikes. And you’re calling  _ me  _ selfish.”

 

Not waiting for a reply, Bee turned back around in her stool and heard the clip clop of heels quickly recede from earshot. She had just sliced almost 70% of today’s monsters, but she hadn’t been as high strung on confusion and exasperation and adrenaline as this very moment. Michael’s words came echoing back as she stood bound in a cellar:  _ What’s your purpose here?  _ She tried to shake away his dark smile and the phantom pains in her temple. 

 

_ What’s it like, being human? Or whatever you are. _ She palmed her forehead, staring down at the bar counter and ignoring whoever had just sat beside her.  _ You hate it, don’t you? _ She sighed and blinked hard, but the voice wouldn’t stop.

 

_ I bet you were treated better as a car. _

 

“Bee,” a familiar voice caught her attention. She looked up to see Dean, who had moved from his spot by Sam. “You okay?”

 

_ I could give you purpose. _

 

“Yep,” she forced out, her voice cracking a little. She smiled to try and make up for it.

 

Dean didn’t buy it. “That bleached up cougar try to whisk you off or something?”

 

“No,” Bee replied, dropping the smile when she saw he wasn’t fooled. “Just… people. They have no idea what it is we do, and if you don’t fit into their little molds, it’s like you’re not good enough.”

 

Dean nodded. He had no idea what had really gone down, but that, he could understand. “You wanna talk about it?”

 

Bee faced away from him, the fifth of whiskey on the top shelf suddenly looking especially yummy. “No,” she said with a swallow.

  
Dean shrugged and waved at the bartender. “How ‘bout you talk to Cas?” he suggested before ordering two shots. “He’s been angel, human, God, possessed... you name it. I bet he can give you some advice if you ever feel like you don’t quite fit in.” He slid one glass over to Bee and downed his own.

 

Bee turned to face him again, her face softer this time. “Okay,” she agreed, then took the shot. Cas wouldn’t have jack squat to say about the woman’s harsh words, but they certainly uncovered old wounds that he might be able to address.

 

Dean’s attention wandered to a lovely lady who scooted in beside Sam and introduced herself with a big smile while twirling her hair in her fingers. Bee noted the drop in conversation and followed his gaze, a smile creeping across her face. After a few laughs and questions, Sam and the lady hopped off their stools and took off.

 

Bee feigned a sniff. “Our baby’s growin’ up,” she sniveled.

 

Dean chuckled. Then he thought about someone waiting for him at home. “We should probably get going,” he suggested. “You and your girlfriend ready?”

 

“Mm hmm,” Charlie hummed into her beer at the mention.

 

“Don’t wanna keep Cas waiting,” Bee directed neutrally to Dean, and then stopped breathing when she realized she had said that  _ out loud _ . Not loudly enough for anyone but him to hear, but that was irrelevant. Not wanting to make Dean uncomfortable, she searched his face to gauge his reaction.

 

Dean was tempted to tense up and drop a wall between them. He almost did, but he stopped. Because Bee knew every secret wish Dean had ever uttered. Back before Jack learned how to manipulate matter, Dean would sit alone in his car and blabber about all the things he loved about Cas. He knew how silly it was to talk to something inanimate, but fuck it; he and that car had been through everything. 

 

Sitting in the driver’s seat, engine off, under the stars, he told her about how he had never seen eyes so blue in his life. He told her how much of an idiot Cas was for putting himself in danger for the umpeenth time that week. He listed the places he wouldn’t mind settling down, as long as Cas was there to make civilian life tolerable. He almost told her he loved him. When he choked down the lump in his throat as the words tried to surface, he cried to her. He leaned back on the headrest and sobbed. He blew his nose into a napkin from the glove compartment and stuffed it into an ashtray.

 

She saw it all. She knew him completely. And she was always there, un-judging, un-condemning. And when he looked beside him he realized, she still was.

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he concurred after much more deliberation than was necessary. He tossed some money on the counter and stood up. “I don’t wanna keep him waiting. Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

The floods is threat'ning  
My very life today  
Gimme, gimme shelter  
Or I'm gonna fade away

-Gimme Shelter, the Rolling Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter. They end where they want and at this point I'm too tired to fight it.
> 
> I've been working up to a believable, powerful dynamic between Bee and Dean. I hope I succeeded. Please let me know what you think.


	14. Free Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Rowena's new spell has the bunker reeling with excitement. After the boys present their world's Michael with the news and everyone is awaiting the outcome of an archangel battle, Bee makes a life-altering discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me.

Although the family never doubted her for a second, Rowena’s announcement of her success in piecing together the cage spell spurred an eruption of excited noise, which caught the attention of everyone in the bunker. Alternate universe tenants staying for the night slipped out of their rooms curiously to see what the commotion was about. The air was electric, like the seconds before a band walks on stage. Everyone wanted to hug Rowena. Everyone wanted to hug each other. And Rowena, still unaccustomed to positive attention, just wanted everyone to stand back so her shiny new spell wouldn’t get wrinkled.

 

Somehow, Bee got stuck with “get the archangel blade from the archives” duty, which was a mistake, because she had never even set foot in the archives. It was mostly books, she discovered, with a few shiny objects between the shelves and behind glass. She paused at one of the suspicious empty spaces between bookends and realized the small shadow box leaned against the wall was empty, with shards of glass littering the corner.

 

“Hello Bee,” a low voice startled her from behind. She whipped around to find Cas. “Have you found the blade? The rest of the group was too excited about the news of Rowena’s spell to realize you might not know where it is.”

 

Bee let out a short, sharp laugh. “‘In the archives’ is as far as I’ve gotten so far. Am I getting warm?”

 

Cas swallowed but didn’t answer, instead darting his eyes around the room. 

 

“Dean tell you I wanted to talk to you?”

 

Cas nodded gently. “He said you might be having trouble adjusting to life in humanoid form.”

 

Bee raised a brow at the strange description but let it roll off. He wasn’t exactly human, himself. He just looked like it, much like her.

 

“I know I shouldn’t let stuff like this bother me,” she let out slowly, picking at the broken glass absently. “But I just have so many questions. And the one person who could’ve given me answers is gone.” Her voice trailed off as the subject of Jack came up. The old pang of uncertainty hit her.

 

“What sorts of questions?” Cas asked.

 

Bee bit her lip and shifted her footing. “Mostly my purpose here. I have the memories of a car -- a thing made for a reason. They’re the only memories I have, which is pretty cool, because many of them are memories of the boys. But it also kinda sucks, because I’m not that car anymore. My first few years I dragged Bibles around. The rest of the time, I was Hunter Taxi.” Glancing down, she thought about just how ridiculous this would sound anywhere but here. “What do I do now? What’s my job?”

 

“Your job,” Cas explained, “is whatever you want it to be.”

 

Bee met his eyes once more. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I didn’t either, for a long time,” Cas replied. His tone was sympathetic, but not condescending. “Angels were created to serve heaven, no questions asked. It wasn’t my place to search for another purpose in life, but when I would rebel, I stepped out of line with my original function in the universe. Humans are born with this ability to decide their own path. You and I, however… We have to take it.”

 

“Free will,” Bee sighed, the concept dawning on her at last.

 

“Yes,” Cas nodded. “When Jack put the car’s memories into your head, he did it so you could reach into Dean’s mind. The purpose behind your super strength and speed, however, is a mystery to me. But it doesn’t matter.”

 

Bee squinted in response.

 

“You may feel as if you’re fated to live a certain life, with a certain purpose,” Cas continued. “It may look like your abilities and memories dictate your future actions. They don’t. You can choose whatever purpose you want. Free will isn’t just for humans. Take it.”

 

Bee instigated a tight hug. “Thanks Cas,” she said softly by his ear. After he reciprocated the embrace, Bee pulled back and let out a relieved exhale. She had a renewed perspective on life, and although it would take a while to train her mind to think differently, she believed she could choose to be free.

 

“Now, how about we find that archangel blade?” Cas suggested.

 

“Yeah, good idea, except,” Bee pointed to the broken shadow box. “Any idea what used to be in there? And why it’s gone?”

 

Cas narrowed his eyes on the empty display. “It’s supposed to have a Tibetan talisman. It looks like a small gold coin, but with a hole hammered into the top to be worn.”

 

“Why would someone take that?”

 

Cas shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. It holds no major significance to western culture. It would be useless to anyone here.” He poked at the small shards of glass in the corner. “The Men of Letters simply kept it for research purposes. And whoever stole it doesn’t seem bothered by the mess they made.”

 

Bee cocked her head and shrugged. “Okay then. I’ll add that to my list of things to worry about after we put Michael down. Now where’s that blade?”

 

* * *

 

The cage was just as creepy, the flaming sigils just as hot, and the thunder just as loud as last time. The Michael of this world, still appearing in Adam Milligan’s form, clutched onto the bars and leaned forward while listening to Sam and Dean’s story. Although it was nice to hear the voices of actual people, the news they brought was beyond anything he could’ve imagined.

 

“So basically,” Michael recapped, “Amara brought back your mother, Lucifer had a son, you figured out how to hop around alternate realities, and now Michael from the world where you were never born has crossed over.”

 

“That’s the reader’s digest version, yeah,” Dean gulped. Seeing this version of Michael still in his half-brother’s skin was… uncomfortable.

 

“And he possessed you?” 

 

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. Man, he was never going to live this down. “Are you gonna help us or what?”

 

“His way of thinking... I understand it,” Michael explained. “I get it because I am him, just from another reality. To him, alternate universes are ‘contingency plans’ in case his own doesn’t work out. Well, it sounds like he really screwed up his world, so he’s using this one as a second draft, if you will.” 

 

“Yeah well,” Sam jumped in. “We were hoping you’d be kind of upset by that.”

 

Michael stood upright and looked at the bars, nodding. “I understand him, but that does not mean I approve of his actions. This world he is trespassing… It’s my world. My father assigned it to me, and if I can get out and wield a suitable weapon, I’ll fight him.” His gaze met that of the Winchester brothers and for the first time, they saw eye to eye. “I will help you.”

 

“Done and done,” Dean agreed, flipping the archangel blade out of his coat pocket. Being in his presence made Dean nervous, but once he handed over the blade, the outcome of the archangel vs archangel battle would be out of his hands. Passing over this weapon would rid him not just of the responsibility of storing an archangel blade, but the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had put in his time as apocalypse world Michael’s prime target. He was ready for him to be someone else’s problem. Releasing their Michael back into the world was a small price to pay.

 

* * *

 

It’s as if the two Michaels could sense each other. The sensation was unlike anything either had felt, but then again, neither of them had a spiritual doppelganger roaming the earth before. Their auras tugged at each other, like weak magnetic poles, their prayers to each other cutting through weak airwaves like jet noise.

 

_ You don’t belong here _ , one said to the other.  _ You are an intruder. This world is mine. _

 

_ Some guardianship you’ve displayed _ , the other retorted.  _ Look at this place. It’s like a garden overgrown with weeds. The humans, they’re a disease. A stain on your father’s memory. _

 

_ I am an obedient son _ , the one defended.  _ You simply destroy everything in your path. I’ll bet your world was so beautiful before you began cleansing it. Is that what your father would’ve wanted? _

 

As he rolled his shoulders to get a feel for the new vessel, Michael ignored the taunting and made his way downstairs to the former preacher’s living room, where a dozen or so townsfolk had gathered to take their lives. Quietly, they held the looped ropes in their hands and awaited instruction. Michael’s newest suit was a tall man with brown eyes and questionable taste in fashion. He wished he had time to dress up each one like he had Dean, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Michael decided. “You will serve me in this life, after all. I will give you all portions of my grace. You will be my army against an imbecile who dares stand against me.”

 

The decision to meet in the deserts of Arizona was less of an agreement than chance, but it was ideal anyway: no buildings in the way, no humans to distract with their screaming, just lots of wide open space to rain down their wrath on each other. Their constant bickering pulled them closer and closer until they met face to face: one still using Adam’s body as a vessel, though the soul was absent; the other freshly possessing a less than fully willing evangelist.

 

The blue eyed one unsheathed the archangel blade from his sleeve. “You are unarmed,” he discerned. “Leave, invader. This is your last warning, or I will kill you.”

 

The other smirked, his small squadron stepping in front of him to lift their vials and consume his grace. “Now!” he ordered, and they formed a circle around the two archangels. One of them extended his arms and began shooting blue light towards the being they were sworn against, but the opposing archangel flicked his wrist and snapped his neck.

 

“This is what you bring to fight me?” he ridiculed. “And to think we were supposed to be of the same mind. I’m disappointed.” With a snap of his fingers, two more fell dead to the ground. “Are these humans supposed to be your weapons?”

 

“No,” the brown eyed one responded as three more sneaked up behind his counterpart. “They’re supposed to be distractions.”

 

The three laid their hands on him, surging their grace through his limbs to disorient him. Two more tackled him to the ground and pinned him down while the rest kicked his stomach. He cried out in anger, not pain, as his grace quickly healed the superficial wounds these weak beings were inflicting on him. Wondering what his enemy could possibly be planning that would require distraction, he turned his head to see red layers of rock and mudstone being lifted from the depths of the desert with thick orange clouds swirling around it. The mountain sized clump ripped through the air, obliterating the humans in its wake and throwing the stunned archangel into a valley.

 

The shock of the blow knocked the wind out of him, and once the dust around him settled, he stood up to see his adversary looming over him on a high hill with four surviving members of his army standing beside him. Covered in red dust but relatively unharmed, the one below clenched his fist to crush the humans’ hearts. After they cried out in anguish before falling lifeless to the ground, the one above glared menacingly and hovered over his foe in mid-air.

 

Gathering an explosive outburst of strength, the blue eyed one flung his open hand directly in the other’s path, which knocked him off his flight trajectory and tumbling backwards with monumental force. Kicking up dirt and breaking off chunks of sedimentary rock, he rolled and rolled, only picking up speed when he struggled against it.

 

Flying after his tumbling victim, the one with the upper hand increased his velocity all the way to the nearest town, where he veered his course right through a welcome sign and an unsuspecting building. He let go and followed the trail into town, damage reminiscent of a tornado. Downed power lines, blaring car alarms, and a path of destruction through a hotel led him to the pathetic sight of the unwelcome archangel. Asphalt was indented all the way to where he lost momentum and collapsed against the semi tractor trailer that finally stopped him.

 

“Pity losing the followers,” he muttered while repositioning himself against the vehicle. “They were brand new. I would’ve enjoyed killing you while they watched.” He was cut up and bleeding, but his vessel was doing as well as could be expected. Once this was over, he’d have to find a new one fairly quickly, as this one was weak to begin with, not counting all the abuse he had yet to endure.

 

“Tell me, Michael,” this world’s Michael began. “Did Dean Winchester invite you in willingly, or did you twist his mind as well?” He approached his counterpart in quick strides and pinned him against the tracker trailer, blade at his throat. “Because once upon a time, he would’ve never even considered it. I would know. It’s how I got stuck in the cage for so long.”

 

“He virtually begged me!” came the laughing reply. “And how would you know about the mind control? You’re sure we haven’t met?”

 

“It’s something the worst version of myself might do,” he answered. “And well, you are the worst version I’ve had the displeasure of meeting. I believe I will kill you now.”

 

As the blade-wielding one drew his arm back, the unarmed one threw them both into the air and punched the other in the face, a crackle of thunder echoing from the blow. Not waiting for him to recover, the invader grabbed his throat and soared through the sky at such breakneck speed, the air grew hot and whistled around them. Neither paid any mind to the distance as they locked onto each other in an airborne brawl, until they dive bombed into an office building. 

 

People in business attire screamed from every direction as the archangels threw debris off of themselves. They had broken through a window and slid through several cubicles before landing in an important looking office. The man behind the desk scampered off wailing while several disrupted ceiling sprinklers rained down on their desks, spurring electrical sparks and smoking computers.

 

“Let’s take this elsewhere,” the brown eyed one suggested, to which the other nodded before they both kicked more fallen office supplies out of their way. On their ascension, they attempted to trip each other up, but changed tactics once high enough to dwarf the city’s skyscrapers.

 

Tiny water droplets gathering on their skin, the two exchanged kicks and punches in the clouds, the force of their smites lighting up the darkening sky. The rumbling grew louder as they learned each other’s fighting styles and adapted to them, their strength only increasing by the second.

 

As the storm clouds rolled on, they followed, intensity growing blow by blow. A lightning strike pierced through the cloud, but before it could diminish, the one with brown eyes harnessed it, twirling it in his hand like glowing string, and flung it towards his opposer. The fiery blast narrowly missed its target and instead billowed to the earth below. The ball of electricity collided with a large structure below, bursting the building into flames.

 

“That was the White House,” the blue eyed one stated flatly.

 

“Do you know who lives there now?”

 

Our world’s Michael shook his head inquisitively.

 

“Donald Trump!”

 

Oh,” he mumbled, blinking heavily and contemplating for a moment. He motioned to the burning building and shrugged. “Well let’s not stop on account of me. Carry on, then.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the bunker had gone to bed, but Bee couldn’t sleep. Sitting in the archives room with her feet propped up, she read an especially boring chapter on the differences between American and European djinn until her eyes hurt. She tried keeping them shut until sleep took her, but instead her mind raced with possible outcomes of the Michael vs Michael battle and what they’d do in the case of either victory. 

 

If their Michael won, there was still the question of what to do with the brainwashed followers stored away in underground rooms. They were being fed, right? She shrugged that one off; sounded like a Bobby problem. If things ended as hoped, Michael would likely disappear into heaven for a while to catch up on angel-y stuff with the rest of the host.

 

If the bad Michael won, however, that was another can of worms entirely. Say goodbye to the safety of the bunker, because that’ll be the next place on his list. Not only would their only spare archangel be gone, but bad Michael would have possession of the archangel blade. Word around the campfire was, Jack had found another way to put him down. Dean said he died before he could disclose the location of all that research. Learning how to kill an archangel sounded like it required a lot of research; how hard could it be to find?   
  
Pretty freakin’ hard, come to find out. Sam had scoured his computer for hidden files, thumb drives,deleted emails, and every piece of old equipment the Men of Letters had ever used. Dean had torn the place up looking for a mysterious stash of papers or scavenger hunt-style clue, but to no avail. 

 

As she finished reading and began pushing herself to her feet, Bee heard a small metallic  _ cling  _ in the distance. She glanced down to make sure she hadn’t dropped anything, but looked off when she realized the noise was coming from one of the shelves. An etagere full of books was blocking her view to the origin of the noise, so silently, she set the book on the table and tiptoed around the bookcase.

 

It was hardly visible in the dim light, but something was moving against the shelf. Taking a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she inched forward, unsure of what she was about to encounter. As she came closer, she heard the clanking sound again, along with the soft nibble of teeth on metal. Quiet as could be, she closed the distance between her and the shelf to find a large silver shotgun shell held in the grasp of a tiny dragon.

 

She had never seen anything so spectacular. His scales glistened green and blue against the faint light, and his cat eyes blinked sideways as he glared at her. He possessively clutched onto his prize, chewing the unyielding metal between his sharply pointed teeth. Slowly, she extended her hand to the shelf, eyes unblinking, breath caught in her throat.

 

The dragon backed up at first, then blinked skeptically at her before taking the shiny shell in his mouth and climbing onto her hand on all fours. And then he unfurled his wings: stretched, shiny black skin with marbled iridescent sapphire and emerald. Her mouth fell open at the sight, and she tenderly walked towards the light, careful not to make any sudden moves. Once at the table again, she lowered her hand and let the dragon step off, his claws making tiny tapping sounds against the wood.

 

Bee didn’t know what to do. Should she tell someone? Everybody was asleep. Should she put him somewhere? She suspected it might be smart enough to finagle his way out of any room she could lock him in. Should she just leave him alone and let this be their secret? Why was there a dragon in the bunker, anyway?

 

After a minute of playing with his new toy, the dragon made a high-pitched croaking sound and flew off the table. Bee jumped up and followed, not wanting to lose him yet. He landed on top of a high shelf and disappeared into a hole that had been chewed through the wood and wall. Bee pulled up a chair to inspect the hole, small and dark and definitely obscure enough to escape their notice.

 

When she listened for the little sounds he could make and heard nothing but silence, the realization hit her that he hadn’t just dug a cubby space into the wall. There was another room back there. Frantically, she began pressing against the wall and shelf, hoping to unhinge a lock to a secret passageway. She started dislocating books, pushing onto the wall beams, knocking on the ceiling, all either unrevealing or unyielding.

 

She hopped down and moved the chair back. The shelf seemed so unassuming. Glancing down, she noticed a knotted rug that had probably been there since the 1940s. Kicking it out of the way, she uncovered deeply ingrained scuff marks arching from the shelf to the adjacent wall.

 

Clamping her hands down, Bee shoved the heavy shelf bit by bit, still attempting to stay quiet, until she had swung it all the way to the wall. The doorframe was crude and unfinished — definitely meant to remain a secret. Beyond was darkness, which she stepped into cautiously before reaching to the side for a light switch. 

 

The sight illuminated by the buzzing light bulb knocked the wind out of her. Piled from the floor to the ceiling stood stacks of papers, three-ring binders, journals, and various books. Beside those sat a table and chair with a pencil and paper. But what cowered in the corner made her take a step back. 

 

Harmlessly perched atop a pile of shiny belongings sat the bunker’s dragon, contentedly rubbing his face on a Tibetan talisman. Beside him stood a step stool with a white flower proudly standing atop. On the floor, several other strange plants, some sustaining on their own while others grabbed into the floor with sprawling roots. Hunched over in the corner sat a small hairy animal with three eyes and a bushy tail. 

 

Bee immediately contemplated offering them food from the fridge, but if the flowers were perfectly healthy, maybe the other creatures would be fine for another few minutes. Something caught her eye on the paper sitting on the table. Careful not to startle the mysterious but calm occupants, Bee sat down and studied the paper. 

 

Everything was in Jack’s handwriting. Swiftly scanning the document, she froze when she saw her name written near the bottom. The paper had two lists, side by side, and she quickly pieced together what they meant. One column was for listing the hosts from which Jack made something, and the other was the resulted creation. She grew indifferent to all other words on the list as she read over and over the ones that named her:

 

Impala | Bee

 

She breathed deeply and tightly shut her eyes, the blunt, cold words hitting her harder than she ever thought possible. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the list again. It was all so impassive. Like he was just checking off items on a grocery list. Although she knew deep inside that Jack would never mean for it to come across that way, he never intended for her to read the list, either. 

 

Standing to her feet, Bee considered sealing the door and never coming back, but shook it off and took a gander at the high pile of papers and binders. She stood on the table to reach the journal on top and blew off the dust. Then she sat down and read. 

 

With all the scribbles, white out, and eraser marks of a sprawling, long-term project, the journal presented piece by piece of information. It was disjointed, messy, and confusing, but one thing was for sure: It was research. 

 

At first she couldn’t tell what of, but amid the chicken scratch and rough sketches, she made out words like “grace” and “nephilim” and “regeneration.” She paused and reread the paragraph, this time more carefully. Skipping ahead a few pages, she saw more on the topics and several sources mentioned. Jack had made copies of art from lore books and taped them onto his journal to supplement his findings. She flipped to the last page. The last marking read “1/20”.

 

One of twenty… what? Bee glanced back at the ceiling-high pile of research. She carefully slid a three-ring binder out of the middle and looked at the back corner. It said “9/20”. Her eyes fell forlornly at the crude stack of papers supporting the entire pile. Letting out a determined exhale, she pressed up on the rest of the books, binders, and journals the best she could and gently tugged at the paper. 

 

When the bottom stack didn’t budge, she pushed higher on the rest of the pile and sent several pieces up top crashing onto the floor. Thankfully, none of them were loose papers and she could finally get what she was reaching for. When she checked the last paper and indeed read “20/20” she settled down at the table once more and thumbed through. Whatever Jack was looking for, she would find it here. 

 

She swallowed a lump in her throat when she turned a page to find a very long, complicated list with extra words added in later and some crossed out. That was no to-do list; that was a spell. At least, what Jack believed to be a workable spell. She froze when she read the header at the top of the paper: 

 

Nephilim regeneration 

 

She inhaled sharply as she read the ingredients. The herbs and blood didn’t bother her as much as the items needed that caused her to turn her head towards the creatures in the corner. The spell required something untouched by God, to reach into the Empty. Surely something in this room would fit that bill. It also called for nephilim grace, and a lot of it. 

 

Although he might’ve infused some of his creations with his grace, they would need every last bit to even come close to the amount required. Everything and everyone in that room would have to pitch in.

 

Bee touched her hand to her throat, where a small bit of nephilim grace still resided. 

 

_ He included some of his grace when he created you? _ Sam’s voice came ringing into her head. 

 

_ With this, I can turn back into my original form at will. _

 

Bee dropped the papers to the floor and sank down beside the chair, unable to even sit. Her hands shook as her world came crashing down around her as she realized her end. They were going to need her to give what she could for the spell. And then she would have to use the rest to turn back into the Impala. Lightheaded and devastated, she grabbed Jack’s first journal and looked at the date. 

 

It went back to the day after Dean said yes to Michael. Did that mean Jack always had a nagging feeling that something awful would happen to him? He  _ did _ lose the majority of his grace, so it would make sense for him to prepare for the worst. It would make sense for him to create a rough formula, safely hidden from the rest of the world, that would aid Rowena should she need it. It would make sense for him to make so many things with his grace injected, so a massive quantity of his essence could be stored and referenced if necessary. 

 

Bee was awestruck by the detailed plan, but a sick feeling grew in her gut when a stark reality registered. The reason she was so fast, so strong, so resilient, so similar to her original host, was not so that she could be fast, strong, and resilient. 

 

It was so her transition back to the car would take the least amount of grace possible. 

 

Sitting numbly on the floor, Bee stared at the pile of research strewn across the floor. She had her answer. She had gone into the mind of her creator and dug around until she found her original purpose, and she hated it. She was the way she was, not because it was cool, or badass, but because it was a means to an end. Because he knew he might need that grace back, and the less of a difference between the two things on that list, the more grace she could spare to resurrect him. 

 

Her lips grew cold and skin clammy as bile rose in her throat. Blinking away black spots, she stumbled to the front of the room and retched over a trash can. And then she cried. She felt so dirty, so cheap, so used. She curled up with her her knees to her chest and let out an anguished sob. 

 

No, she couldn’t think like this.  _ Remember what Cas said _ , she thought.  _ Free will and all that jazz. You can choose not to do this. You can nail that shelf back in place and forget about it. _

 

Bee relaxed her legs, stretching them onto the floor. She couldn’t turn her back on her family. Spell or not, she would’ve helped Jack anyway. It was the Winchester way. 

 

_ It may look like your abilities and memories dictate your future actions. They don’t. _

 

And that’s when it hit her: This wasn’t about her original purpose. Maybe it was, back when Jack wrote in these journals and spoke her into existence, but that was then and this was now. She had chosen free will the moment Cas explained it in the library. Now the question was, what would she do with it?

* * *

 

Listen to Free Will by Rush with lyrics [here](https://youtu.be/bpOyQhgM1FU).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot to this story is ending up far more complicated than I originally intended. Those here for the smut, DO NOT WORRY, more is coming. However, nothing in this story is gratuitous, including that. Cas and Dean have complex reasoning behind their feelings and actions, and I want to capture those in this story. So when there have sexy times, it's purposeful and helps drive the plot forward. All that to say: I have MUCH more on the way :)


	15. The Battle of Evermore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As two Michaels battle to the death and leave a path of destruction in their wake, Bee shows Dean a room full of secrets that will bring one of the family members back from the dead... and send another back to her original form. When news of an archangel's demise reaches the bunker, the residents realize the battle is far from over.

Mornings were quickly becoming Dean’s favorite thing. Lazy spooning and sleepy kisses were the perfect way to start his day. He didn’t mind the lack of room on his bed; it just gave him an excuse to scoot in a little closer and ask Cas to hold him a little tighter. This particular morning, he woke up to a very rise-and-shiny member of Cas’ body hard against his ass crack.

 

“Excuse me?” Dean mumbled deeply, sleep still coating his throat. He wiggled his butt against Cas’ morning wood, not sure how that worked with _angels_ who don’t friggin _sleep_ but not caring in the least. “Can I help you with that, sir?”

 

“Mmm,” Cas hummed. Eyes still half shut and lips plastered together, he pressed his lower body harder against Dean, his erection growing tight in his briefs.

 

Dean moaned at the welcomed feeling and turned around to face Cas. His disheveled black hair and day-old scruff was arguably just as arousing as his hardened cock, and Dean wasted no time grinding against him with arms around his neck. After thoroughly aroused by the friction between them, Dean dipped underneath the sheets and pried away Cas’ underwear.

 

“Mm, Dean,” Cas mumbled.

 

Dean loved it when his name was the first word on Cas’ lips for the day and he wanted to make him say it plenty more times before they left the room. Pulling Cas’ briefs down to his ankles, Dean wasted no time getting that thick cock in his mouth, Cas’ morning sensitivity pulling out appreciative moans and fingers tangled in Dean’s hair.

 

“Cas,” Dean whispered back. “Damn, I’m getting so hard just doing this.” He rubbed his pelvis against the mattress as he licked and sucked up and down Cas’ length. He paused from the main attraction to put one of Cas’ balls in his mouth, quite pleased with the reaction it elicited.

 

“Dean,” Cas huffed with a jolt. “Fuck.”

 

His eyes widened. “Okay, that was hot.” Dean decided right then and there, he loved it when Cas swore. Causing someone so holy as an angel to come undone enough to spill out words usually associated with filth made him wild with desire. He mouthed the other ball and licked from Cas’ hole all the way up his shaft.

 

“Dammit Dean,” Cas hissed. “You are… very good at this.”

 

Taking his tip in his mouth, Dean swirled his tongue under Cas’ head and sucked hard enough for Cas to see stars. When Cas’ balls tightened and breath becoming erratic, Dean kicked off his precome-stained boxer briefs and pressed his own cock between Cas’ legs, nudging their erections close and jacking them together until they both came spurting into Dean’s hands and dripping onto Cas’ lower stomach.

 

Dean flailed his hands at his nightstand until he succeeded in pulling out a tissue, knocking the tissue box over and stumbling back down to wipe up the mess.

 

“I love morning sex,” he puffed on an exhale. His blood was pumping, he was wide awake, and he had gotten off. There were zero downsides to this. Except of course, when they had to get up like adults and do something with their day.

 

Dean had just slipped on jeans and a shirt when a knock at the door made him do a double take at the clock. Sam didn’t usually start enforcing Get Up Time until around 10am. When he cracked open the door, he was surprised to see Bee.

 

“I need to show you something,” she deadpanned before he could greet her.

 

He followed her into the archives, where she pushed a huge bookshelf out of the way to reveal a secret room. She flicked on the light and stepped aside, leaving Dean standing there dumbfounded. He walked in carefully.

 

Books, journals, binders. Loose papers scattered around. Weird ass flowers growing out of the floorboards. And… was that a dragon? And something else that had one too many eyes glaring at him.

 

“Bee?” he breathed, at a loss for words.

 

“This is where Jack stored his research,” she explained, “and things he made.” She looked at the floor while holding loosely onto a sheet of paper. She held it up for him to take.

 

It contained two lists, which he read through while glancing at the creations listed that sat in the corner. The white flower was made from dirt; the weird-looking green one from a brick; the dragon from Sam’s drone; and Bee…

 

He lowered the paper and looked up to to see her staring vaguely into space. Another paper was in her hand.

 

“When did you find all this?” Dean asked, finally finding words.

 

“Last night,” she replied before handing him the other sheet.

 

He looked curiously at the scribbly mess. “What’s this?” But Bee didn’t reply. He studied the words, the title, the date etched into the corner, and he clenched his jaw in realization. “Oh, my god.”

 

“You should go tell Rowena. She’ll probably be able to make some sense of it,” she softly laughed with no humor behind it.

 

“Yeah, she’s been looking for something like this for me, actually,” he replied, at first not picking up on the tone. He started to leave, making it as far as the archives table, when he took the time to _really look_ at the spell. It was going to be a doozy. They would need something of Jack’s that hadn’t been made from a host, some blood, probably a death, some herbs and shit, and… a fuckton of nephilim grace.

 

He turned back towards the hidden room. They would have to squeeze every last bit of juice out of those flowers, and dragon, and three-eyed thing, and… her. Dean felt his stomach drop. Hurrying back in, he saw her sitting on the floor with the dragon.

 

He plopped down and folded the papers. “Are you okay?” he questioned.

 

“No,” she answered honestly, still not making eye contact. She rolled a coin across the floor for the dragon to fetch.

 

“Have you told Charlie yet?”

 

“Not yet,” her voice cracked.

 

There was absolutely nothing he could do to make this better, and knowing that broke his heart. Bee had found love, kicked ass, and consistently knew exactly what he needed to hear. Now that she was here, how the hell were they supposed to go on without her? She had stolen the hearts of all who knew her. Together, she and Charlie were unstoppable. Dean swallowed a lump in his throat when he thought of every time she kept him strong, and realized he would never be able to repay her. But he had to try.

 

“You want me to go with you?” he asked.

 

Bee took in a deep breath, but broke down on the exhale. “Yes,” she cried, burying her head in her hands.

 

Dean scooted closer and put his arm around her. She leaned in and sobbed on his shoulder, books and journals still strewn across the floor. Dean sighed sharply at the harrowing future ahead and stuffed the papers into his pocket as they sat. How much more fucked up could this get? He pushed the unwelcome thought out of his mind as he stared into space absently and held her.

 

* * *

 

The battling archangels were past the point of caring what suffered at their hands, the ground below them in flames and everything from houses to mountains scattered in ruins from being thrown. When one striked, the other retaliated. City by city, they blew through, moving too fast for anyone to get a good look or even believe what they saw.

 

It was high time for the unarmed of the two to make a power move, as his vessel was growing weaker by the minute. Hoping his opposition wouldn’t notice his deteriorating meat suit, he kept landing punches every time they collided in midair. When they flew into each other’s space once more, he grabbed onto the hand holding the blade and gave a sharp snap.

 

Letting out a pained scream, the Michael of this world lost his grip, sending the archangel blade plummeting to the earth. Before he could recover, his disarmer plunged down like a shooting star, not stopping until he had the blade in hand. Tables now turned, the invading Michael rocketed back into the air to give chase.

 

Essence burning through his vessel’s skin, he pursued the fleeing archangel, his rage the perfect motivator. Time rapidly running out, he threw all his energy into closing the distance and clung onto the retreater and raised the blade. The blue eyed one struggled against him, pushing against his hand and dodging his blows. As they crashed into the rocky side of a mountain, they fought over control of the weapon and sent newly cracked boulders tumbling towards the town below.

 

“There can be only one,” the armed one spoke through gritted teeth. He punched his rival repeatedly, slowing his reaction time and disorienting him. “Tell everyone in the Empty I said hello.” With that he swung the archangel into the other’s chest. As he bellowed his death cry, blinding white light streamed out of his eyes and mouth until it fizzled out and he slumped over in a heap.

 

Vessel falling apart, the victor staggered against the mountainside, his footing lost from bones beginning to crack. Even so, he guffawed smugly and hid the archangel blade in his sleeve. As he prepared to leave the depleted body, he envisioned the vessel he had been missing after all this time. After this next meat suit, he would reclaim his Sword.

 

“I believe I’ll pay Dean Winchester a visit.”

 

* * *

 

Rowena scanned over the sheets of paper Dean had unfolded, nodding sharply every couple of seconds.

 

“The lad was definitely onto something here,” she commented. “You said there’s a beast with three eyes that isn’t on the list?”

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Dean affirmed.

 

She pointed to an ingredient on the rough spell. “That’s because he’s the thing untouched by God. Everything else on that list was made of the earth, in some way. The beast is Jack’s original creation.”

 

“He made that out of nothing?”

 

Rowena nodded.

 

Dean smiled proudly. “I’ll be damned. The kid figured it out after all.”

 

“It would’ve taken a lot of effort. It’s no wonder he wasn’t at full power when he healed you,” Rowena explained, voice softening at the end. “Anyway darlin’, I’ll get to work on gathering the rest of the ingredients if you bring me the original creation and everything on his list.”

 

Dean took his time loading the flowers and creatures onto the book cart, thinking back to the moment Bee knocked on Charlie’s door. Charlie could tell something was wrong right away. Dean stood out of their way as Bee explained her discovery of the hidden room, Jack’s back up plan to resurrect himself with the grace he installed when he made her, and how after draining herself for the spell, she would only have enough grace to turn herself back one time.

 

“But,” Charlie spluttered, tears rolling down her face. “Bee, no. You don’t have to. Nobody is making you do this.”

 

“I know,” she replied, sad but resolved. “The whole point of free will is that I don’t have to follow any preordained plan. It’s that I’m not pressured to do any of this… But I can if I want to.”

 

“I can’t lose you,” she sobbed, scooping Bee into her arms.

 

Bee clutched onto her and let the tears fall freely. Why couldn’t there be another way? Why did someone always have to pay the price? Some questions just couldn’t be answered simply.

 

“I love you,” Bee whispered into Charlie’s ear.

 

“I love you too,” Charlie whimpered.

 

Dean shut his eyes and exhaled agonizingly. Once again, he sank into a sea of guilt. This time, however, it was for being an absolute fucking coward. Three words had been on the tip of his tongue for the bigger part of ten years, and he couldn’t grow the balls to say them. He had been afraid of those words coming back to bite him, and yet here Bee was, giving exactly zero fucks for her own comfort moments before signing her life away.

 

Mind clear and heart set, Dean opened his eyes and set his jaw firmly. He knew what he had to do.

 

“I’m gonna leave you two alone,” he spoke up. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to talk about. Take all the time you need.”

 

And so here he was, loading up the cart and waiting for Cas to answer his text. The chance to inform Cas of the secret room and all its belongings hadn’t presented itself until now, and he wanted to be the one to show him. Plus, it was private enough to talk comfortably.

 

“Dean, what is this place?” Cas inquired as he scanned the room with wonderstruck eyes.

 

“It’s Jack’s secret lair. This is where he hid his research.”

 

Cas eyed the tall stack of books and journals up and down. “This is quite impressive. Are those his…?” He pointed to the flowers and creatures Dean was loading up.

 

“Yep, and the hairy one looking at you funny is an original work.”

 

Cas hunched over the three-eyed thing and guided a gentle hand over its fur. He always did have an appreciation for creativity, even in its strangest forms.

 

“The research is pretty extensive,” Dean explained, handing him a three-ring binder. “They’re all dated and numbered. Bee just found all this, so we haven’t really had the chance to go through it all.”

 

Cas thumbed through the pages, stopping at the back flap to inspect the number: 11/20.

 

“Do these correspond to the numbers on the artifacts in the bunker?”

 

“Uh, what now?”

 

“The tags on various items the men of letters have collected,” Cas replied, brows furrowed in deep thought. “You’ve seen them scattered around, correct? While you’re dusting.”

 

Dean’s bright eyes blew open. He had noticed the strange numbered tags a few times during his cleanings, but never gave them any thought.

 

“Hold up,” he instructed with an index finger before taking off into the archives. He returned with a stiff piece of taxidermy with a small piece of paper taped to the bottom.

 

Cas looked more than slightly disturbed. “What is that?”

 

“It’s a crocotta,” Dean answered, setting it on the table and peeling off the tag. It read 11/20. “It’s an Ethiopian wolf-dog that goes all siren and eats people.”

 

When Cas gave a puzzled look, Dean sat down and to flip through the 11/20 binder and set it down for Cas to read, pointing at the paragraph of interest.

 

“Crocotta,” Cas read aloud. “A dog-wolf of immense strength that calls out to men in human voices, devouring those who approach it.”

 

“The kid was writing his own hunter journals,” Dean said excitedly. “Cas, this is awesome!”

 

Cas looked between the dressed monster corpse and Jack’s handwriting, impressed but unsure of what to do with this information.

 

“Ground control to Major Tom,” Dean snapped with a glimmer in his eye. “Jack didn’t just tell me he was hiding stuff he had made. He mentioned research, and not just your ordinary hunter diaries shit.” He scooted the chair closer to Cas. “The kid was tracking down a way to gank Michael.”

 

The reality struck Cas, but as wonderful as the news was, it would take several bunker residents several hours to find the info, which would hopefully prove unnecessary anyway.

 

“That’s wonderful, Dean. But if today’s battle proves successful, it won’t be necessary.”

 

Dean shrugged and closed the binder. “That’s not why I called you in here, anyway.”

 

Cas blinked and stared eagerly at Dean. Once upon a time, Dean might have felt uncomfortable under the intimate gaze, but now he found it endearing. He couldn’t get enough of those deep blue eyes anyway, and if Cas wanted to make the job easier by looking right into his, well, that was alright with Dean.

 

Standing upright, Dean entered Cas’ space to begin. “I’ve been needing to tell you something for a while now.” He cleared his throat in an effort to still his unsteady voice. “I uh… I guess I’ve been letting you know in every way possible without saying it outright, but…” He searched Cas’ face for any hint of apprehension. “You know how I feel about you, right Cas?”

 

A smile bloomed in Cas eyes but hadn’t quite reached his mouth yet, when every light in the bunker powered down, followed by blaring sirens and slowly blinking red lights. Dashing out of the room, Cas and Dean were soon met by Sam, who was charging through the bunker with his phone at his ear.

 

“Dean, you need to get out of here,” Sam enunciated thickly. “One of Bobby’s guys saw the archangel fight end. Our Michael is down.”

 

“Down?” Dean clarified. “As in, down down? Or just,” he shrugged, “down?”

 

“He’s dead, Dean. And apocalypse world Michael is coming for you.”

 

Color draining from his face, Dean processed the information with dread and a very old fear rising up in him. Michael was going to take him. He didn’t even need to ask permission for seconds. And he wasn’t sure he would survive another go-round.

 

Cas grabbed Dean’s shoulder and pulled him towards his room. “Get ready to leave,” Cas ordered. “I’ll warn the others. Meet me in the garage in ten minutes.”

 

Mind swimming with too many thoughts and memories to speak, Dean nodded and stumbled forward, eventually finding himself standing in front of his bed. He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking alone, or how long he had been standing there. Everything seemed to shrink around him. The walls felt like they were closing in and the air was being sucked out of the room.

 

This was it. He was coming for him. The plan had failed. Once again, he would feel the crushing weight of an archangel taking seat within his body, and the constant buzz of celestial glory preventing him from rest. He would surely be thrown back into that antagonizing beach with girls in bikinis and Sam playing fetch with a golden retriever and that goddamn Beach Boys playlist and Cas getting his toes nibbled by fish.

 

Or perhaps that was too good for him. Perhaps instead, Dean would get a dark, cold tower with thick chains and rats. Or maybe a desert where he would slowly die of thirst every day, waking up the next to face it all again. Perhaps Michael would be just cruel enough to force Dean to watch every move he made, like a virtual reality ride where you stayed strapped in with no controls.

 

Dean shook his head as he leaned against his bed breathing heavily. No, he had to fight. He had to run as long as he could. He had to make sure Jack hadn’t died in vain. As he threw together a duffle bag of ammo and clothes, he heard a thump at the door but wasn’t coherent enough to know if he answered before Rowena barged in.

 

“Castiel loaded Jack’s creations into the car and sealed the room shut,” she rattled off quickly. “I’ve got the body. Come now, let’s get a move on.”

 

The angry red lights and sirens seemed to grow more and more urgent by the second. Dean relaxed when she grasped onto his arm, the presence settling his nerves. Okay Dean, focus. Clothes? Check. Ammo? Check. Spell supplies? Check. Witch for needed spell is right here. Cas is in the car. Sam is evacuating everyone else.

 

“Where’s Bee?”

 

“She and Charlie are already at the car,” Rowena explained, tugging at him again. “Now hurry up. Michael is going to be here any minute.”

 

The trip to Wichita felt longer than it really was. For the majority of the time, the only noises to be heard were Cas’ car engine running and the occasional car they would zoom by. The tensity radiating off of Sam was palatable, so no one was particularly surprised when he was the first to speak up.

 

“I can’t believe you actually hid Jack’s body, there, in the bunker,” he said quietly, since Dean sitting directly in front of him in the passenger seat. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

 

“Eventually, man,” Dean griped. “I didn’t want you worrying about something else that could go wrong. Am I right, Rowena?”

 

Sam looked directly to his left, where Rowena sat crushed between him and Bee. “Way to throw me under the bus!” she squealed.

 

“Can we talk about something else?” Charlie suggested from the corner opposite of Sam. “Like what Michael’s going to do when he realizes the bunker’s empty?”

 

“He will waste no time tracking us down,” Cas answered.

 

“Any of his finks live in Wichita?” Bee wondered.

 

“Bobby’s people have already been through here,” Sam informed everyone. “They’ve counselled his followers and released them. They shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“Shouldn’t,” Dean repeated skeptically.

 

The group crossed over into city limits and beheld the many hiding places ahead. Whether Michael had spies here or not, they would soon find out. Bee suggested they stay at a different hotel than the first one they rolled up to, since Michael had researched so many of their habits in the Supernatural books. Rowena turned her nose up at the lack of luxury, but everyone else gave an eye roll and decided on a mediocre place downtown.

 

It was late and everyone had been up for far too long, but no one was about to surrender to sleep. Charlie and Bee were organizing weapons and ammunition, both trying to keep the conversation light and void of the spell Rowena was brewing in the next room over. There, the witch began preparing herbs and rehearsing a blessing over the original creation they would need to bleed. Sam offered to stay and help her, since Dean and Cas had taken off to walk around outside.

 

It felt like the calm before the storm. Cas and Dean knew it was, but neither wanted to bring it up. Instead, they worked off their nervous energy kicking gravel and stewing over mundane subjects.

 

“You think Rowena’s brew is gonna work?” Dean questioned, more as a way of filling the silence than truly asking.

 

Cas toed the grit below, crunching sounds cutting through the city noise. “I hope so. If not, then we it won’t be from lack of trying.”

 

“Man, I’m just still trying to wrap my head around the possibility of him coming back. It’s awesome that the kid made the effort, anyway. No matter what the outcome of this, I’m proud of him.”

 

“So am I,” Castiel agreed. “And I’ll tell him, after I give him a lengthy lecture on how he turned our lives upside down and to never do that again.”

 

Dean huffed a laugh.

 

Cas swallowed and looked down. “I already knew what it was to lose hope before we lost Jack, and I never wanted to feel that again.”

 

Dean glared at him suspiciously. “If you’re trying to bring up me saying yes to Michael, you can take that and shove it, Cas. I regret that every day of my life. But he had Sam and Jack and,” he shook his head heartily, “I felt like I didn’t have a choice. Agreeing to an open invitation for that bastard to ride my ass was a mistake. But I did it to save my brother and the kid. That, I’d do all over again.”

 

“Because you give no regard for yourself,” Cas finished. “When are you going to realize, Dean Winchester, that just because you can live with a decision you make for yourself, doesn’t mean I can?”

 

“You aren’t the one that’s gotta live with it,” Dean fought. “What am I supposed to do, ask your permission?”

 

“No, that would be absurd. You aren’t listening to me.”

 

“Okay then spill! I’m listening!”

 

“I lost you,” Cas declared. “The moment he possessed you, I felt it. When you flew out of the bunker, I just _knew_ you were gone. And I couldn’t live with that.”

 

“Yeah? Well here I am,” Dean raised his arms and let them fall at his sides. “I’m not gone anymore. Our memories together snapped me out of Michael’s control.”

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“Then what’s the point?”

 

Cas sighed and looked into Dean’s eyes. He was so confused and angry and _if only he could see himself as Cas saw him_. He was worth more than the whole of creation in Cas’ eyes.

 

“The point,” Cas continued, “is that I cannot bear to lose you again. Please, do not make me go through that again. I know your life is full of dangerous situations, and I am not asking you to stop. I am simply asking you to think about the fact that I lived billions of years before you and a few short weeks without you and they were the lowest points of my existence.”

 

Dean stood dumbfounded as Cas’ words showered on him like rain after a drought. Stepping forward, he cupped Cas’ cheek and looked into his eyes, color muted by the stark contrast of a moonless night and harsh parking lot light, but still blue. What did he ever do to deserve someone like this? Dean had done nothing but make him wait for ten long years; he wasn’t going to make him wait anymore.

 

“I love you, Cas.”

 

And he swore to the high heavens, he saw Cas’ eyes freakin’ twinkle. His smile grew until it nudged against Dean’s hand, which was honestly the cutest thing Dean had ever seen. When Cas let out a satisfying exhale, he held his angel close and held his breath as Cas licked his lips in preparation for his response.

 

“I love you too, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a couple of things:
> 
> 1) YAY, a love confession at last! Now I can write little "I love you"s during sexy times *_* aw yissssss. I almost wrote Dean screaming it angrily, but that's... just not how Dean's tone ended up. I kind of like it like this, though.
> 
> 2) Putting Bee through some major whump. Those of you rooting hard for Charlie and Bee might be upset with me for how the story is unfolding. I'm going to ask you as a fellow SPN fan who is tired of how the screenwriters write women into the show, to trust me. Please, PLEASE stay with me. I'm not spoiling anything, but I will say this: Everything is happening for a reason, including this. 
> 
> 3) EASTER EGGS! Have you found any so far? I will list them all at the end of the last chapter :) Some canon, mostly fanon. Can't wait to see what allusions/references you find!


	16. Your Stairway Lies on the Whispering Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The retreating bunker residents hold their breath as Michael searches high and low for his one true vessel. When Dean is tracked down in Wichita, all his defenders can do is stall the inevitable. Unbeknownst to Michael, Rowena is opening up a portal to the Empty in an effort to resurrect Jack. Will the team's efforts be enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been the crux of the story in my head for a long time. These are the scenes that have demanded to be written. This is the "oh my god" moment for me. This is the battle Dean might not come back from.

Bee kept telling herself that the extraction would just be for the spell; there was no rush to revert back to original form, she could take her time; but the switch-back wasn’t the problem. It was knowing that it was a one-and-done deal -- that once she pulled the plug and initiated the transformation, she was done. She would cease to exist. No more five senses, no more memories, not even a heaven above or hell below, just… nothing.

 

She and Charlie had filled their night and morning with closeness and whispers. They laid stretched out on the bed in full tactical gear, ready to run at a moment’s notice, all the while wishing Michael would never find them. Charlie could hear Bee’s heartbeat as she rested her head on her chest, while Bee moved her hand through Charlie’s hair. The TV was on, but neither of them were really watching.

 

“If you could know exactly when you were going to turn back, would you want to?” Charlie asked. They had gone all night without bringing it up, but the air was thick with the imminent subject.

 

“Nah,” Bee breathed. “That’s like me asking if you’d wanna know when you’re gonna die.”

 

“I’d be able to plan for it better,” Charlie pointed out.

 

“True, but wouldn’t that kinda spoil it? If you gotta create a schedule to keep from wastin’ your life, you’re doin’ it wrong. You gotta get it while you can.”

 

“Hmm,” Charlie hummed thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right.”

 

Thinking about death this intimately wasn’t normal. Even after her short amount of time as a breathing being, Bee knew that. But when you’re facing your own end, or the death of a loved one, you think about life a little differently.

 

“My life isn’t meant for me to hold back. Free will or not, that’s just the way it is,” Bee continued. “If I hold back, I’m no good. I’d rather be good sometimes, than holding back all the time.”

 

Charlie had nothing to add to that, so she laid quietly and held Bee close. She would’ve liked to believe that Bee still had a long time yet, but neither of them could shake the gut feeling that her time was coming sooner than later. When a knock at the door pulled them out of their distracted haze, Bee reluctantly answered the door door to see Rowena.

 

“It’s time, dear,” she spoke gently.

 

Charlie came up behind Bee to take her hand, and the two followed Rowena into her room, where Sam was standing over Jack’s body. Rowena had preserved it with a spell, so they laid him on the bed and Sam had unwrapped him. In the center of the room, a tarp was spread under a cauldron, ready to catch the sacrificial blood.

 

After Rowena cast a circle and recited the beginning of her spell, she scooped up one of Jack’s flowers and cut the stem with her boline, holding it over the cauldron as a tiny bit of white grace dripped down. Bee let out a sigh. Some of these works, such as the dragon and at least one other flower, hadn’t been infused with grace at all. Most of it was going to come from her.

 

Bee stepped forward when Rowena held out her hand. “Now, just make a small cut and let it flow out,” she instructed. “Only leave what you need to begin the transition. Once you use that small amount of grace, you won’t be able to turn back into your current form anymore. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Bee answered. She took the boline in hand and made a slow slit in her throat, bending over the smoking cauldron and watching the hot white essence flow down. It mixed with the existing grace below her, swirling and sputtering as their combined powers grew exponentially. She kept giving as the depletion caused her to feel lightheaded, stepping away only when she felt the empty dryness everywhere but a small bit right at the end.

 

Breathing deeply, she stumbled back and held her hand to her neck. Charlie held her steady as she regained her footing and blinked the black spots away.

 

“Are you alright?” Charlie murmured as Rowena resumed her spell.

 

Bee let out a long exhale and ran her fingers over the cut to feel that it had already scabbed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

 

Rowena’s ethereal chanting grew in volume as she brought over the furry, three eyed creature, hands directing energy into it. She had just taken the boline from Bee and was positioning it at the beast’s throat when Cas and Dean burst into the room.

 

“He’s here,” Dean deadpanned, hair messy and shirt inside out. “Bobby called -- one of his guys saw him.”

 

“Go,” Rowena shooed them. “I’ll finish the spell here. He can’t know about this.”

 

Sam, Bee, and Charlie rushed out of the room, following Castiel and Dean down the hallway and out the back door. Bee couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two scruffy, bearded men loitering by an AC unit sharing a pack of cigarettes in the mid-morning sun.

 

“I’m telling you, I stomped on the gas, and the thing is still sluggish as hell,” one of them drawled after blowing out a long puff of smoke. “The weird whining noise from the passenger’s side just won’t stop.”

 

“And you tried revvin’ it in park and it wouldn’t go over 4k rpm?”

 

“Excuse me,” Bee broke away from the group to jump in. “But… revving in park? No dude, just… don’t do that.”

 

The two men shared a glance before peering wordlessly at her as Sam came up behind her to urge her on.

 

“Also, that might be the power steering pump,” she continued as Sam motioned towards the direction the group ran. “Oh, and check your fluids, man.”

 

“What do you know about cars?” the first man grumbled.

 

“Wow,” Bee and Sam moaned in unison before taking off without another word.

 

As the five of them ran through the city, cars beeping and people shouting behind them, the air around them grew heavy with a thick cloud rumbling overhead. Its lightning was otherworldly, curved and blinding as it wrapped through the cloud like grapevines. The wind picked up papers, leaves, and dirt, swirling it around each of the runaways, reminding them that their stalker was very much aware of their presence.

 

Sam caught up with his brother and yelled as they ran, “He’s behind us. Cas and I are going to fall back and keep him off as long as we can. Charlie and Bee are going with you.”

 

Dean nodded as Sam dropped behind. As he bolted down Main Street, Bee zoomed by him and pointed to a highrise the next block down. It loomed over every other building in the city, all those offices and rooms the perfect maze to lose Michael on this deadly chase.

 

Thee three shoved past several businessmen in suits and ignored the receptionist altogether, heading for the stairwell as the building began to shake.

 

“How many stories this thing got?” Dean huffed nervously as they stomped up three staircases and ran into the hallway.

 

“Above ground? Twenty two,” Bee replied easily.

 

Dean huffed at the sudden energy exertion. “I have an idea, let’s take the elevator.”

 

As they slid to a halt to catch the lift, the stairway door exploded, sending splinters into nearby cubicles and shattering a window with the handle. Charlie frantically tapped the elevator button multiple times, the flatform already on their floor but the doors taking an eternity to open. Bee ran back towards the broken door.

 

“I’ll hold him off,” she yelled, already halfway there. “You guys go down, I’m going up!”

 

Charlie nodded as Dean hurried into the elevator. Bee wasn’t sure what the point was in making a show out of giving chase, but it probably had to do with the enjoyment he got out of seeing his victims scared shitless. That, and he was very vain and dramatic. Bee turned to jump back into the stairwell when she came face to face with the archangel himself, complete with a vessel already halfway through its shelf life.

 

“What, no theme song this time?” he taunted, stepping into her space.

 

“Didn’t bring my cassette box. Can I interest you in a capella?” Grabbing onto the remnants of the doorframe, Bee swung forward and kicked Michael in the gut. As he tumbled down a flight of stairs, Bee hurried up the next set.

 

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in revisiting my proposal?” he asked as he sauntered upward at a relaxed pace.

 

Bee didn’t answer, and instead began her trek up the next two flights, checking every few seconds to make sure he was still following her.

 

“It would be wonderful driving you around.”

 

“Wow, car jokes,” she replied flatly. “Hilarious.”

 

“There’s something different about you this time,” he noted, rubbing his chin as he marched closer, step by step. “You seem a little… Wait. Are you missing some grace?”

 

“That’s kind of a personal question, ya know?”

 

He was close enough for the grim glint in his eyes to show, and his tight, toothy smile sent shivers down her spine. “You  _ are  _ missing some! Did you turn back for a little bit? Get a nice tall drink of unleaded? Or does Dean spoil you and get premium?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“This vessel used to be quite the comedian. At least, around his congregation. At home though?” He whistled and shook his head. 

 

“You’re not funny.” Up and up they went, Bee’s stamina never wavering as her heckler followed closely behind. “And you’re not taking Dean again. Beat it.”

 

With an angry growl, Michael tore out a chunk of stairs and chucked it at Bee, who narrowly dodged it and kept running. “He is rightfully mine. And I won’t be so kind as to keep his body alive this time. I’ll snap his neck as soon as I’m back in control. Try reaching into his mind then, Bee!”

 

When she reached the end of the staircase and saw she had reached the final floor, Bee scanned the area to find a ladder system on the wall leading to the roof. She quickly climbed it and unlatched the hatch. After climbing out onto the windy surface, her blood ran cold with the sight of Charlie and Dean standing right in front of her.

 

“What are you doing here?” she yelled.

 

“You said go up,” said Charlie.

 

“I said  _ I’m  _ going up!” Bee hollered. “I told you to go down!”

 

“I thought you said  _ don’t  _ go down!”

 

* * *

 

“I think he found Dean,” Sam worried. “That cloud stopped right above the Epic Center.”

 

“Then we need to get in there,” Cas demanded as they cut through alleyways and public parking.

 

“Hey, you two!”

 

Sam and Cas halted at the familiar voice, and were overjoyed to see Jody beaming at them, followed by Claire. 

 

“Oh god,” Sam sighed, “you have no idea how glad I am to see you guys.” He hugged both of them and motioned for them to follow him towards the Epic Center. “Michael is going after Dean, and we think we know where they are. Charlie and Bee are already with him, but Cas and I want to go in and surprise him from behind.”

 

“Well, we figured you could use a hand,” Jody said. “We’ll watch from outside and be ready if you need us in there too, or if Michael leaves the building.”

 

Cas looked back as they walked at a brisk pace. “It’s good to see you again, Claire.” 

 

“Hey Cas,” she replied lightly.

 

* * *

 

Rowena had repeated the seventh incantation with blood splattered across the hotel room and a dense void growing in her cauldron. It revolved like a whirlpool, beyond black and seeming to open up another dimension. It rumbled low and aggressive, sparks flying into the air with the mix of nephilim grace and herbs. On her shoulder perched the dragon inquisitively.

 

When the blackness filled her cauldron to the brim, a blinding white light surged from the void into Jack’s body. It pulsated with the energy’s force, then stilled. Rowena hovered over Jack, noticing a faint flush to his cheeks. With a thick gulp of air, Jack’s eyes blew open and he sat up straight in bed. He blinked at Rowena, who had cowered back a few steps at the sudden movement.

 

“Jack!” she exclaimed, hands on her cheeks and dragon hiding behind her neck. “Mother of God, it worked! You.. it’s really you!”

 

To her wonder, Jack slid off the bed and rushed over to her cauldron to look into the vantablack brimming with howls and electric bolts.

 

“Rowena, thank you,” Jack breathed appreciatively. “You guys found my research.”

 

“Aye, m’boy,” Rowena nodded. “What are you doing, laddie?”

 

He fearlessly picked up the smoking cauldron. “I woke up some others in the Empty. They said they’d like to come back and help get rid of Michael.”

 

With that, he flung the contents of the cauldron onto the hotel wall, causing the thick blackness to spread from ceiling to floor. No sooner had Rowena opened her mouth in protest when none other than Gabriel waltzed into the room from the void. Rowena’s eyes widened, and Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows at her before stepping aside so more could come through. Next came Hannah, Balthazar, and Samandriel, who nodded their respects to Rowena before taking off after Gabriel. Hundreds of others followed, all angels, all single file. Too shocked for words, Rowena stood by and patiently waited for the parade of heavenly host to come to a close.

 

“Close the circle,” Jack instructed as the last angel marched through. “I’ve sent Gabriel to lead the others against Michael. Where are Sam and Cas?”

 

* * *

 

Dean gulped silently and peered over the edge at the city around him, busy and oblivious and very, very far down. “How high up are we?” 

 

“Michael is on the other side of that hatch, and you’re asking about heights?” Charlie scolded.

 

Bee stood with her back to the other two and reached over her shoulder for a weapon. The hatch door blew off with a loud metallic noise, dust and pieces of ceiling carried off by the roof’s wind. Michael climbed out unceremoniously, vessel starting to peel as he pushed himself to his feet, and Bee positioned the grenade launcher tightly against herself with a finger on the trigger and eye on the crosshairs. Michael glared behind her, a smirk lacing his lips as he made eye contact with his true vessel. On his first step forward, Bee pulled the trigger and sent a single round into Michael’s body.

 

The 40mm grenade roared through the air, its reverberations sucked up by the lack of acoustics. Michael doubled over with a grunt, but stood back up to reveal a mere break in skin. Bee shot off all five remaining rounds in rapid fire, each shot deepening his wounds minutely but not enough to slow him down. He took another step forward, grace rising into his throat, blue white light emanating from his eyes and mouth as he prepared to make the jump into Dean.

 

“Hey!” came a gruff yell from behind. He turned to see Sam pointing a pistol at him and Castiel wielding an angel blade. Michael laughed condescendingly.

 

“Are you here to stop me? With those? You can watch while I take up my Sword and then kill him.”

 

Sam and Castiel’s faces blanked off all readable emotions, their eyes broadening as their jaws fell slack. Assuming it was because of the threat he would make good on, Michael sneered darkly and began releasing his grace into the cold rooftop air, turning around dramatically to give everyone an excellent view.

 

As he stood facing Dean, he choked his grace back down to see several hundred angels standing between him and his true vessel, all with blades unsheathed. Leading them all was the archangel Gabriel, dourly staring Michael directly in the eyes. 

 

“That half angel kid dragged me and this bunch of losers all the way from the Empty,” Gabriel griped, “and all I got was this lousy excuse of a Michael. Look at yourself, you’re falling apart!”

 

“Step aside, you fool! I’ll have my Sword,” Michael spat, his mouth tearing and finger bones crunching under his clenched fists. He could feel his essence burning through the body. He panicked as he passed the usual amount of time seated in one meat suit.

 

“Oh, go on right ahead,” Gabriel waved in his army’s general direction. “But you’ll have to go through every single one of us to do it. And something tells me,” he looked Michael up and down, “you don’t have that kind of time.”

 

Michael roared in fury, palming his face and ripping off shreds of skin as the angels and humans watched. Blood trickled down his body, pooling onto the rooftop as he raged. The patches of raw muscle and bone steamed with the heat of his grace, which was burning through his vessel at an alarming rate and beginning to shine through.

 

With one last outrage, he stood absolute and looked over the hundreds of angels to meet Dean square in the eye. “If I can’t have him, no one can!” And with a swat of his hand, Dean flew backwards off the side of the building.

 

* * *

 

Jody and Claire stood by the side of the building, trying to keep their eyes up while remaining inconspicuous to passers-by. The air was thick with tension; both of them just knew something was wrong. Claire glanced at the nearest door, which had opened, but the only person leaving was a lady in a suit, and she sighed with relief.

 

“Jody, Claire,” an unfamiliar voice called them from behind.

 

“Oh my god,” Jody exclaimed when she saw him. “You’re… you’re Jack!”

 

He stepped forward and nodded, wanting to smile at Sam and Dean’s friends but the situation far too serious for frivolities. “It’s a long story, but I’m back from the Empty and I brought reinforcements. Have you seen Sam or Cas?”

 

“Jack,” Claire interrupted, stepping forward reservedly. She looked tough and capable but at that moment, she also looked like she was going to cry. 

 

“Castiel told me about you,” Jack supplied, sensing her unease. He took a step forward, to which she rushed into his arms and clung onto him. She sniffed and let out a contented exhale before releasing him, a shy smile breaking across her face.

 

“So I guess we’re like, adopted siblings or something?”

 

“Guess so,” Jack concurred. 

 

Jody smiled with gratitude that Claire could finally meet Cas’ son, but cleared her throat before answering Jack’s original question. “Sam and Cas went in there to hold off Michael from repossessing Dean.”

 

“Then that’s where the rest of the angels are, too. I’m going to teleport up there --”

 

Claire’s shrill scream tore everyone’s attention to the top of the building, from which Dean had just been thrown.

 

* * *

 

Bee smashed her lips against Charlie’s, whispering one last  _ I love you _ before flinging herself off the rooftop. She grabbed onto Dean and spun herself around so she was faceup with him over her.

 

“The hell are you doing?” he wailed as they freefell against the hissing air.

 

“Breaking your fall,” came Bee’s reply.

 

“That ground is gonna crush every bone in your body. I can’t fix you!”

 

“No, but you  _ can  _ fix a car.”

 

Dean objected over and over, his voice growing hoarse as Bee clutched him into a headlock. His vision grew fuzzy as he plunged toward the ground, and the feel of an arm released as he opened his eyes to see a steering wheel and dashboard materialize in front of him. He no longer felt the sting of cold air whip his face, as a pane of glass shielded him from the front and a driver’s seat from below. He braced himself for impact, asphalt and vehicles flying into view and a seat belt snug against his chest.

 

The Impala plowed into the parking lot nose first, crushing the front end and dropping the back end with a heavy bounce. Dean opened his eyes slowly, the sound of several car alarms cutting through the unnatural silence. The windshield was obliterated and his face was cut in a few places, but he was alive. He glanced down at his feet and was relieved to see that the engine had absorbed most of the impact, leaving the floor beginning to fold accordion-style but still intact. The hood, bunched up and bent, had smoke rising from underneath. 

 

Dean breathed heavily and laid his head on the steering wheel. He drew in a shaky breath, looked around, then tried to open the door. It had warped on impact and wouldn’t budge, so Dean unbuckled and wrapped his jacket around his hand to punch out the window glass. After climbing out, he stood back, telling himself it was to assess the damage but really to process what had just happened.

 

“Shit,” Dean hissed, looking over the crushed car digging into the asphalt. “Holy fucking christ. I didn’t… She shouldn’t’of…” He hung his head and squinted his eyes shut, hoping he would open them to find the circumstances far different. Hoping he had hallucinated the last minute of his life. Hoping there was no way Bee’s sudden lack of existence was on him. “No. No no no...:”

 

“Dean!” a high-pitched voice cracked.

 

He turned to see Claire running toward him, followed by Jody, and then Jack.

 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Claire’s voice shook. “You’re bleeding, oh god.”

 

“I’m okay,” he gruffed. He looked behind Claire to see Jack, who was scanning the battered car but looked up to meet Dean’s gaze. 

 

“Dean,” Jack breathed. He vaulted over the distance and into Dean’s embrace.

 

The spell worked. Rowena had figured it out. The grace and blood and witchy shit was enough. Mixed emotions warred in his mind. Was he happy? Pissed off? Grateful? Angry? Overwhelmed? Devastated? Jack was back, Bee was gone. The unfair exchange sounded just about right for a family as fucked up as his, but acknowledging it made it no easier to accept.

 

“I sure did miss you, kid,” Dean murmured in his ear. “Has Cas seen you yet?”

 

“Jack,” Castiel’s voice rang out in the distance. “Dean.”

 

Jack ran to hug Cas, and Dean joined in, followed by a surprise fourth one -- Sam. They held each other eagerly, once again feeling the wholeness of family between the four of them. The embrace melted into a confusing mess of questions and laughter, each one talking above the other to try and get more information out of Jack. Nobody really cared how soon their inquiries would be answered; they were just thankful that at last, they could be.

 

Amid the disorder, a swing of red hair caught Dean’s eye and he turned to see Charlie. She was facing away from them, eyes fixed on the Impala. She sat on the edge of the parking lot, holding her knees to her chin and passively shying away from conversation. Dean swallowed a lump in his throat as a stab of remorse coursed through him. 

 

He didn’t want the joy of the occasion to be spoiled. He didn’t choose when he felt the pang of survivor’s guilt. But how could he fully enjoy a reunion when in the deepest part of his soul, he couldn’t deny that someone was missing? How dare he indulge in the fruit of one’s sacrifice? How could he be happy, when it came at such a high price?

* * *

 

Your head is humming and it won't go  
In case you don't know  
The piper's calling you to join him  
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow  
And did you know  
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind

 

And as we wind on down the road  
Our shadows taller than our soul  
There walks a lady we all know  
Who shines white light and wants to show  
How everything still turns to gold  
And if you listen very hard  
The tune will come to you at last  
When all are one and one is all  
To be a rock and not to roll  
And she's buying the stairway to heaven

 

-Led Zeppelin


	17. Ramble On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Jack's return, Dean deals with contradicting emotions with whiskey and denial. Can Cas pull him out of the funk?

_ It’s all wrong _

_ By rights we shouldn’t even be here. _

_ But we are. _

_ It’s like in the great stories Mr. Frodo. _

_ The ones that really mattered. _

 

Dean stared at the TV blankly, empty glass hanging limply in his hand. Samwise Gamgee, the  _ real  _ hero in Lord of the Rings, repeated the same monologue Dean had heard a hundred times. The same background music played, the same battle scenes flashed in and out, but it felt different this time.

 

_ Full of darkness and danger they were, _

_ and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. _

_ Because how could the end be happy. _

 

Dean released the glass, sending it to the floor with a loud shatter. He picked up the whiskey bottle and tipped it into his mouth. It burned and warmed his throat and made him numb, just as he liked it.

 

_ How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened. _

 

A drip of liquor dropped off his chin and onto his shirt as he closed his eyes and exhaled. Who the fuck had talked him into this movie? This was the worst idea ever. Samwise Gamgee needed to go fuck himself, that’s what. Stick a hobbit-sized cactus dildo up his ass, no lube. Dean bottomed the bottle up again, emptying it of the last bit.

 

_ But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. _

_ Even darkness must pass. _

 

He needed a new bottle. He was getting too sober for this happy ending bullshit. Walk a mile in his shoes, Mr. Gamgee and your blue-eyed whiny little bitch, Mr. Frodo. In the world of Winchesters, there were no giant-ass eagles or magical ring or wise old wizard to fight off the Balrog. Here, people he cared about died. And it wasn’t fair.

 

_ A new day will come. _

_ And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. _

_ Those were the stories that stayed with you. _

_ That meant something. _

_ Even if you were too small to understand why. _

 

Why, oh why won’t you shut the fuck up, you over-glorified gardener? She didn’t deserve to go. Not like that. She and Charlie should’ve had more time. Hell, he should’ve found a completely different way. Maybe Jack had other freaks stashed away, like, as an emergency. In a  _ super  _ secret room. Even more secret than the first one.

 

Nope. It was too late. And he should be playing catch with the kid or badgering his brother for drinking liquid kale or fucking Cas, but… he didn’t deserve any of those things. He hadn’t earned a single one.

 

_ But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. _

_ I know now. _

_ Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn’t. _

_ Because they were holding on to something. _

 

His eyes were transfixed on the TV, as if hearing the exchange for the first time.

 

_ What are we holding on to, Sam? _

 

Dean held his breath. What, indeed? What could possibly be worth holding onto, after so much loss? Over the course of a year, he had lost everyone. He had seen more death than your friendly neighborhood reaper and a fictional character was telling him to keep going. 

 

Fuck that shit. Try turning around and someone you’re used to being there, being gone. One day they’re fine, the next, they’re dead. Imagine opening the door, expecting to hear their voice and see their face, and then you remember: Oh, that’s right. Try to keep living when everyone around you is dying, and see how cheery that makes you. Try being the one who keeps getting left behind. It’s no wonder old folks have no qualms about passing on; by the time everyone who has tied you to this earth has gone away, you’re quite ready to go yourself.

 

_ That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for. _

 

Dean sighed and laid the bottle on the couch. As much as he hated the thought, he knew it as vividly as he knew his own name. He wasn’t done fighting his way back. Part of this war was defeating his enemy, and that bastard was still roaming the earth. He couldn’t rest until that was done. They would regroup, plan, and take the fight to him. Dean had an army and Michael didn’t. They could win this.

 

But not today. He struggled up with a tired groan and stepped carefully over the shards of glass. Today, he was going to get stone-cold drunk and be a dick.

 

* * *

 

Cas had heard maybe eight words out of Dean the past three days, and most of them were “fuck.” Jack was still recovering. Although the ritual was enough to bring him back, his grace wasn’t fully restored, so he had spent the past few days keeping to himself. Sam and Bobby were keeping a watchful eye on Michael, who thankfully hadn’t come within a thousand miles of the bunker since Wichita. And Cas was somewhere in the middle: He wanted to make things better, but right now the only thing that could make things better was time.

 

So he would spend his days outdoors, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather in the woods surrounding the bunker. Perhaps he could convince Dean to plant him a garden this spring. Dean needed to get out more, and by that he meant doing things that didn’t involve blood and death. 

 

Cas meandered around the garage, glancing at each of the classic cars. He ran a hand lightly over the Impala, still beaten up from the crash, and he realized that this was the first time he had seen it parked here in a very long time. How silly would it be to say something to her, as she couldn’t hear, since Bee was no more and the car was now simply, once again, the car.

 

“It’s good to have you back,” Cas began. “No disrespect to Bee, as she will forever live in our hearts, but… We missed you, too. Dean hasn’t fixed you yet, because he’s still having a hard time with… well, everything. He’ll have you up and running again in no time. I promise.”

 

Cas looked over the broken windshield and driver window, the crushed front supported with jacks so the wheels wouldn’t get bent, the distorted hood and front doors, and busted tires. He sighed. Dean certainly had his work cut out for him.

 

Wanting some fresh air, Cas pressed the button to lift the garage door. “And to you, Bee,” he continued as he faced the warm, orange light pouring in. “I don’t know if you can hear me. Probably not. It’s okay, the car can’t hear me either. You were so much more than any of us expected. You used the things about you that made you special, for good. You took free will and made the world better. Thank you.”

 

Cas listened to the gentle rustle of leaves just outside. A squirrel hopped from one side of the entrance to the other, startled at the sight of Cas. The serenity of nature calmed him, and the world fell silent just before a light buzzing sound caught his attention.

 

Curving through the air in uninhibited motions, an insect flew into the garage. It was a bee. Cas stood motionless as it hummed lowly around his face, once bopping against his nose before hovering around him warmly. He wrinkled his nose against the burst of pollen against his nostrils. It looked right at him as it batted its wings against the air, and Cas smiled.

 

Veering to the side, the little insect dropped interest in Cas to buzz around the cars. It stopped right above the Impala and plonked down with a tiny bounce before regaining its footing. There it sat resting its wings, and Cas stepped closer to put one hand on the car and lean down.

 

“Hello,” he whispered ever so softly, mere inches from the bee.

 

Unaffected by the greeting, the bee stared at Cas and walked around the small area on the hood that wasn’t bent up. The two shared the moment in silence, the rest of the world far away as they stood wordless. Content with its visit, the bee lifted into the air once more and soared past Cas, leaving the garage with a loud buzz. 

 

Cas watched the bee’s path until it disappeared into the tall grass beyond the driveway. The humming of its wings had long been swallowed by the louder sounds of the outdoors, but Cas still waited with his breath in his throat, listening. He didn’t have the heart to close the garage door just yet, so he sat at the bunker door until he was sure his visitor didn’t want to stop by a second time.

 

Finding Dean the past few days had proven easy enough. He was either in the Dean Cave drinking or downstairs, digging out another bottle. There he lay, on the couch, watching the backend of the Two Towers, the smell of whiskey and sweat permeating the room.

 

“You need a shower,” Cas noted flatly after walking close enough to make his presence known.

 

“Yeah? What for? S’not like I got anybody to ‘mpress,” Dean slurred wetly. 

 

Cas rolled his eyes and lifted him to a sitting position, despite Dean’s grumbles of resistance. “You haven’t stepped foot in a tub since Wichita, it’s disgusting.”

 

“So? I wipe my ass.”

 

“Come on, I’m going to wash you up.”

 

“Fuck off, Cas!”

 

“Dean,” his voice hardened, to which Dean sat up straight and blinked tightly. “You’ve been on a bender for three days. I can smell you from outside this room. You need to fix your car.”

 

“I can shower after I fix th’car.”

 

“No, you’re showering now. Come on,” Cas insisted as he pulled Dean to his feet. The trip down the hall vaguely resembled dragging a six year old to the bath, littered with small grunts and head shaking and tiny steps back every few feet.

 

Finally behind a shower curtain and sudsing up a washcloth, Cas paused from the task at hand to see Dean giggling against the shower spray.

 

“You’re naked,” he chuckled, eyes half-lidded.

 

“So are you,” Cas replied, unamused by Dean’s drunken state.

 

“Yeah but I’m supposed to be naked. You’re… you’re like, a volunteer. Or somp’thin.”

 

Cas sighed and began genty dragging the washcloth across Dean’s face. “Well, this volunteer is going to make you socially acceptable. No more stinky Dean.”

 

“I’m like Cinderella!”

 

“Yes, Dean. Like Cinderella.” Cas lathered Dean’s head with shampoo, and Dean squinted as it started trickling onto his face.

 

“That makes you my fairy godmother?”

 

Cas shook his head in defeat, a small smile peeping across his face. He tilted Dean’s head back to rinse out the suds, then moved down to his body. Dean made no shortage of jokes about that, especially when Cas leaned down to attend below his waist. After finally finishing Dean’s feet and rinsing out the washcloth, Cas gave him a wet hug and reached down to turn the valve.

 

“I need to take a shit,” Dean confessed as soon as the shower was off.

 

Cas rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “You couldn’t go before the shower?”

 

“I didn’t have to go then.”

 

Throwing his head back to let out an exasperated exhale, Cas stepped out of the tub and threw Dean a towel before wrapping himself in one. “You are absolutely insufferable.”

 

“Love you too,” Dean smirked as Cas left.

 

He really should get Dean a bigger bed. Trying to keep him from rolling off in the middle of the night was getting ridiculous. Cas was awake for every moment of it, of course, and at least once a night, was catching Dean mid-fall while he kept snoring. Dean had never been a heavy sleeper before they started sharing a bed; every little thing would tear him out of sleep and he’d reach for the gun under his pillow in practised swiftness. Now, the gun was in the night stand drawer. With an angel spooning him, Dean figured it to be a bit redundant.

 

But rest was the last thing on Dean’s alcohol-riddled mind when he jumped into bed.

 

“I washed my butthole!” he exclaimed.

 

Cas raised his brows. “I’m not sure why you feel the need to communicate the detail of your post-bathroom hygiene, Dean, but you need to go to bed.”

 

Dean pouted and started trying to push Cas’ trench coat off, which actually just pushed his entire body closer to the edge of the bed. “C’mon Cas, do I gotta beg?”

 

Cas raised a brow and repositioned himself on the mattress. “I really hope you aren’t insinuating that you want to have sex. Now, while you’re still drunk.”

 

Dean tilted his head down coyly and batted his lashes.

 

“No,” Cas replied, turning Dean away from him and wrapping his arms around the whining man’s waist. “We can engage in whatever activities you want after you sleep.”

 

“Hmph,” Dean grunted just a few short seconds before the first snore of the night.

 

And so he laid there, motionless save the swell of his chest with each breath, for a full five hours. He woke up hungry, thirsty, and sober, much to Cas’ consolation. The rest of the bunker had long since finished their dinner, so Cas fed him snacks in bed and a tall glass of water, along with something for the splitting headache. This time, when Dean started picking at Cas’ clothes, it was with faultless tactility.

 

“Damn this headache,” Dean grumbled as the last of their attire fell to the floor. “My forehead feels like I wanna rip it off.”

 

“The medicine should kick in soon,” Cas consoled, his low voice vibrating against Dean’s throat, sending bolts of lust through every nerve in his body.

 

“You know what else would do the trick?”

 

“An ice pack?”

 

“No, you ass. You fucking me into next week.”

 

Cas’ brow said it all. Dean shuddered when Cas took the skin connecting his shoulder and neck in his teeth, his long moans an indicator that Dr. Cas’ remedy was already beginning to work. He arched his back when Cas latched onto one of his nipples while rolling the other under his thumb and forefinger. His mind cleared of everything except  _ Cas  _ as his body responded to every touch.

 

Dean grabbed onto Cas’ shoulders and slammed him onto his back. He enjoyed the look of surprise on Cas’ face, and looked into his dark blue eyes for a moment before dropping between his legs. He threw the covers back and lifted one of Cas’ legs up to suck on the skin connecting his calf and thigh, right behind his knee. He forgot where he learned he liked this, but he quickly found out he wasn’t the only one as Cas shouted below him.

 

“Does it tickle?” Dean asked smugly.

 

“Yes but,” Cas huffed, “I like it.”

 

Dean repeated the motion on the other leg and kissed a line all the way to Cas’ cock. Dean wished he could take a picture of the writhing mess beneath him. Cas’ eyes were slammed shut, hands gripping the sheets, face red with arousal, hair sticking everywhere, and mouth wide open to make way for cries of pleasure Dean kept driving out of him. 

 

His carnal hunger ignited by what he saw, Dean wrapped his arms around the tops of Cas’ thighs and lowered his mouth onto his swollen, leaking cock. He sucked off a trail of precome and tongued at Cas’ slit, which sent Cas into a fit of unsuccessful jerks against Dean’s steady hands. The harder he sucked, the deeper he took Cas’ length, and the more vocal Cas became.

 

“Dean, you need to stop,” Cas warned as he pulled Dean off by his hair.

 

Cas sat up in bed, shaken but ready to put Dean on his back, but Dean climbed into his lap and plunged their mouths together as he straddled him. The back of Cas’ head hit the headboard but they kept rocking into each other, tongues exploring each others mouths and hands everywhere. Dean guided Cas’ hand to his hole, where Cas rimmed the tight muscle before reaching into the end table for the lube.

 

Dean inhaled sharply at the first wet finger inserted, but relaxed as Cas carefully opened him up bit by bit. It was Dean’s turn to come undone as Cas pumped in and out of him, first with one finger, then two, then three. He shoved his fingers as far as they’d go, making Dean groan with want, and didn’t stop until he was begging to be fucked.

 

“I need you inside of me,” Dean hissed, pressing their foreheads together and lying back on the bed. His hangover was a distant memory as his mind was overcome with one thought: “Fuck me, Cas. Please, I need you to.”

 

Cas wanted to make a teasing comment about taking what he’s given, but his brain could only compute one word:  _ Dean _ . So he knelt over him and lifted his legs so he could watch himself sink his cock into Dean’s hole, inch by agonizing inch. As he bottomed out, he let out a long moan and paused to let Dean adjust to his girth.

 

“Dean,” Cas whispered as he kissed one of Dean’s freckles.

 

“Yeah yeah, you big romantic,” Dean muttered playfully. “Now move, Cas. This ass is way too gorgeous to  _ not  _ pound into.”

 

And just like that, Castiel snapped into Dean at a merciless pace. Already stirred by Dean’s enthusiasm and smug grin and stellar blowjob, Cas put all his arousal into each fuck he propelled into him. Cas began seeing white spots as he chased his release, and words spilled out of his mouth without being completely aware of what they were.

 

“En mononusa,” Dean heard Cas mumble. He forgot to breath as he watched the syllables fall off Cas’ lips. 

 

As Cas sped up his pace, he slid Dean’s cock between his hands and jacked him tight and fast. Dean was getting fucked so hard, his head was knocking against the headboard. At first, he pressed against it with his fists, but grabbed onto Cas’ arms in approval when his cock got the friction it so desperately needed. 

 

Dean came with a breathy moan, eyes rolling back as he tossed his head onto the pillow. Cas worked him through his orgasm, then grabbed onto Dean’s hips as he railed into him. Dean’s eyes shot open when Cas uttered another phrase above him. 

 

“En tofagilo,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes glassy and breath erratic. With one last deep thrust, Cas’ orgasm took hold of his body, any further words or sounds absorbed by the force of his cock filling Dean with his seed. 

 

As the two lay limp in each other’s arms, Dean stared at the ceiling, not sure if it was considered polite to ask your partner what they were saying while fucking you. 

 

“Cas, were you speaking Enochian?” Dean finally inquired after turning towards his sated lover. 

 

Cas looked down shyly. “Yes, it was. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. I was… very stimulated and couldn’t put together human speech in the moment.”

 

“Um, you’re apologizing?” Dean laughed. “That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever done. I am totally over-stimulating you again soon.”

 

Cas smiled and met Dean’s beautiful gaze again. 

 

“What did you say, anyway?”

 

Cas had to think about it for a moment, as the words just flowed unbidden in the heat of passion. “Em mononusa means ‘my heart’. En tofagilo,” he blushed, “means ‘my everything’.”

 

A sweet warmth swelled in Dean’s heart as he processed the terms of endearment. He pondered the chore of translating such beautiful words into the tongues of men. Was it possible that a sufficient transliteration didn’t exist, and Cas just had to find the closest words possible? That the heavenly language held a much deeper meaning than English could express? Dean wished he could speak Enochian and know for sure. 

 

But for now, he was overwhelmed with the beauty of such names describing him. He took Cas’ hand in his, running his thumbs over his knuckles and kissing them. 

 

“I love you,” Dean breathed. 

 

Cas leaned in and kissed him softly. “I love you too. Now get out there and fix your car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys deserve some fluff and smut after everything you've been through. Let me know if you're enjoying Husbands!Cas and Dean.
> 
> For those of you following this as a WIP, I changed the chapter total from 20 to ? because I'm not sure *exactly* what chapter number this will end with, so I didn't want anyone to be confused if I go over or under. Originally I was trying for 100k words and I'm definitely not going to reach that but oh well... it's still the longest story I've written so far :)
> 
> Leave feedback here or find me on Tumblr: deans-jiggly-pudding


	18. Wrap Around Your Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean happens upon a weapon that will the turn the tables on Michael, and it's been right under their noses the whole time. The discovery gives him newfound hope and reason to rejoice while he's awake, but what about in the still of the night, when all he has are his innermost thoughts?

“Hey Cas?”

 

“Do you need the blow torch again?” he guessed as he rummaged around the tools. Somehow Dean had talked him out of his usual outfit.  _ You’ll get filthy in that garage if you plan on helping. Here, put this on _ . Cas was now sporting a worn pair of jeans and one of Dean’s band tees, and Dean had to stay under the car to keep from jumping his bones.

 

“No, I was wondering,” Dean answered, “how did Michael track us so fast?”

 

Cas cleared his throat, not expecting the uncomfortable subject of Wichita to come up. “When an angel leaves his vessel, he leaves a trace amount that allows him to reclaim it without asking for permission again. It also makes tracking past vessels very easy. It’s like a GPS system. He can tap into it at any time.”

 

Dean suddenly felt exposed. “So he knows where I am, right now?”

 

“He can, if he wants to,” Cas replied. “As we both know, however, he decamped as soon as the angels showed up. He knows we have reinforcements, and without his grace army, his full power will only hold for as long as his temporary vessels do.”

 

“Yeah but he’s got an archangel blade and we’ve got jack with a side of squat. What’s he afraid of?”

 

“Michael is a strategist. He’s not going to go on the offense unless a victory is sure. Especially since it’s just him now.”

 

Dean lowered the floor jack slightly to pry off the crushed sway bar. “Since we happen to have several hundred angels back from the dead, I’m gonna assume they wouldn’t mind lending a hand. Throw me a thirteen mil, would you?”

 

Cas dug through the box and handed Dean the wrench. “Their first priority is stabilizing heaven, which is going well. They shouldn’t take much convincing.”

 

Dean slipped off the sway bar and tossed it to the side. It clanged against the garage floor and Cas reached for the new bar. The air was charged with Dean’s next question, and Cas held his breath as he awaited it.

 

“Hey Cas? Where’s Jack?”

 

“He left with your mother and Bobby. They’re doing a salt and burn in Arkansas. They thought it might be good to slowly acclimate him back into hunting.”

 

“Huh,” Dean puffed thoughtfully.

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“Just curious,” came the vague response. Over the past few days, Dean had given Jack the space he needed to recover from being, well, dead. Dean had been there and done that, and there’s a bit of an adjustment period. Like jet lag, but instead of missing a few time zones, you’re missing entire chunks of the world’s existence. He didn’t expect Jack to approach him with the exact journal number and page of his secret “whoop Michael’s ass recipe” right off the bat, but he didn’t expect to have to beg him for it either. Of course, it’s not like they had many conversations since Wichita, as Dean had kept himself locked up and drunk the whole time.

 

After replacing the sway bar, Dean called it quitting time and took another shower, this one quick and minimal. Satisfied with what he and Cas had accomplished in one sitting, he listed off more things to fix and added up what parts he needed to order next. He had been taking pictures of each step toward making her brand new again, and swiped through his camera roll proudly. He’d have her up and running again in no time.

 

Unable to wind down, he wandered through the bunker hallways. He heard the distinct muffled snaps of gunfire from the practice range, and let out a remorseful sigh when he deduced that it was Charlie. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since Wichita. What on earth was he supposed to say?  _ I’m sorry I got thrown off a building and your girlfriend pulled the plug on her existence to break my fall? I’m sorry I’m the reason she’s not here anymore? I’m sorry it wasn’t me, instead of her? _

 

Nothing he could say would make this better, and who was he to say Charlie even wanted to look at his face? So he kept walking. He walked until he came across a corner with a dusty artifact sitting on the built in shelf, with a cobweb dangling in the dead air. Dean pursed his lips disapprovingly and marched the short distance to Sam’s room, and thumped on the door.

 

Dean waited a second before barging in, only to see Sam tapping obliviously on his laptop. “Hey,” his little brother welcomed. He furrowed his brows when Dean glared down on him with crossed arms. “What’s your problem?”

 

“What’s my problem?” Dean scoffed. “Am I the only one who does any goddamn cleaning around here? There’s dust like, everywhere. And random spider webs. What the hell, man?”

 

“Dean,” Sam clipped, “dusting is your job. And if you’re talking about the Ethiopian ritualistic bloodstone in the corner, it’s so far down the hallway, nobody hardly even goes back there.”

 

Dean exhaled sharply, releasing his arms at his sides. “Well, I noticed. And it’s disgusting. Also, I’ve been kinda busy lately, so a little help would be appreciated.”

 

Sam relented with a patronizing smile. His definition of “busy” differed greatly from Dean, and generally didn’t include benders. Even though the reason Dean was behind on his chore was unglamorous, he excused it and knew that right now, Dean just needed support.

 

“Alright Dean,” he nodded, his face shifting from a place of judgement to that of forgiveness. “I’ll take this end if you take the other.”

 

“Deal,” Dean agreed with a finger gun. He wouldn’t spare a smile, but was less irked than when he entered. He left Sam with the door cracked open, which was only marginally more irritating than being blamed for dust that wasn’t his fault. Sam ran his hand over his forehead and through his hair to shake it off and continued typing.

 

Having the duster in hand was calming, much to Dean’s inexplicable joy. Saying out loud that your old job which flared up post traumatic stress after your coma was slowly becoming more bearable, sounded crazy, so he kept that to himself. If he could say half the things he thought without sounding like a lunatic, the world might indeed be ready for the truth about what the Winchesters do. But for now, he would hum to himself and dust the bunker.

 

Moments of panic did not care how good of a day Dean was having. Last time he did this, he fell into a flashback so vivid, Bee had to walk in and pull him out. Thankfully, he felt no such tug from his subconscious as he dusted. He made his way through tables full of artifacts, some tagged, some not. He picked up each item to dust around it, and wondered if Jack would resume his independent studies now that both of them were back.

 

The kid was smart. Rowena had made only minor changes to his self-taught spell, and they were tweaks that only an experienced witch would know to make under the circumstances. Dean didn’t have the time or particular desire to go through every note he made about every rusty piece of crap in this place, but he would put money on it that Jack had learned at least one thing about each item that they hadn’t considered before. Maybe Sam would want to mull over the twenty volumes in his wealth of spare time he spent  _ not  _ helping with cleaning.

 

He let out a disgruntled groan when he turned the corner into a room full of artifacts that looked like they hadn’t been touched in months. Nobody even paid attention to this room, as it had no books of significant interest. It was mostly bookcase after bookcase of random old stuff, with the bigger pieces leaned against the corners. He sneezed as dust kicked into the air from running the duster over the collection of Iroquois war clubs. Moving away from the cloud of particles, he decided to move onto some of the artifacts hiding in the corner.

 

He almost missed it completely. It sat in two pieces, leaning against the wall unceremoniously. Until he picked the two halves up, all that showed from behind a fold-out table were two splintered ends with faded rune work along the sides. Dean’s breath caught in his throat as he realized what he had lifted. It was a spear.

 

No, that was no spear. It was a  _ lance _ .

 

The next ten seconds were a blur. Dean fumbled the two halves, trying to lift them out from behind the table without knocking a dent into one of them. He turned them in his sweating hands, eyes darting up and down the lengths of them. He turned his attention to the shiny metallic head, and sharply ripped off the paper attached. 

 

The fraction on the tag read 3/20. Still clutching onto the broken lance, he tore through the bunker, not stopping until he reached the secret room. He shoved the bookcase out of the way and flicked the light on, then placed the broken halves carefully on the table before grabbing the third notebook from the top. 

 

His page flipping was rough and shaky, but it got the job done. Dean started feeling dizzy when he realized he hadn’t breathed since he entered the room. His heart pounded as he skimmed each page, words like “archangel grace” and “lance restoration” jumping out at him, but the word kill” got his full attention. He read the paragraph three times. Then he read the one before it. Then he went back a page and went through it all again. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

 

_ In modern history, Michael and his lance have never been in the same vicinity _ , Dean read.  _ Sources point to the lance being in the hands of the king of hell during Michael’s short time on the earth in 2010. _ He skipped ahead a few sentences.  _ In pre-biblical traditional history, he used this lance while casting Lucifer out from heaven. In the St. Michael Vanquishing Satan painting, Michael is envisioned crushing the devil underfoot with lance in hand. _

 

 

Dean did a quick search on his phone and realized he had seen the painting before. And then he realized something strange that he was sure the painter didn’t intend, but he needed more information before assuming. Going back to Jack’s notes, he picked up where he left off and speed-read for anything interesting.

 

_ It is vague why Michael has been so skittish about being in close proximity to his spear while it’s in the hands of someone else. I believe this to be purposeful. I think Michael was hiding a secret _ . Dean flapped the page over.  _ Why would history be so specific that it was a lance, not a blade, that Michael used to drive out Lucifer? Why would Lucifer be afraid of a spear, unless it could kill him, too? _ Dean searched the page for more spoilers. His theory was being validated.

 

_ All circumstantial evidence points to the Lance of Michael as a viable tool against archangels. One could make the argument that Michael would never wield a weapon that could kill himself, but then why is he so afraid of it? _ Dean swallowed and glanced at the bottom of the page.  _ From this information, I conclude that the lance can be used by anyone to kill Michael. _

 

Dean collapsed into the chair, his mind swimming and eyes running over the last sentence until he was sure they were going to bleed. He focused on Jack’s written words like the sights on a gun: a little blurry at first, then a short time of adjustment, and finally, total clarity. Leaning on his hand, he took a moment to process this information. Could it be? Did Jack just call Michael out on centuries of bullshitting his way through history? After a moment of contemplation, Dean flipped to the end of the notebook to see what end Jack had put on this epic adventure.

 

At the top of the page “Lance of Michael” was written in bold letters. Underneath, he had listed several simple but powerful items. At the bottom of the page, Jack had scribbled out diagonally, “how to fix”. Dean rubbed his temples tightly and fought the urge to shout from the highest rooftop. He was sitting in front of the piece of paper that would save them all. Breathing deeply, he sat in silence and looked around to make absolutely sure he wasn’t dreaming.

 

“Cas,” he prayed, already in the headspace to concentrate deeply. “C’mere, in Jack’s secret room. Now, please.” He kept the message nonspecific, just in case his prayer projected too well and other angels heard. The last thing he needed was the sum whole of the heavenly host trying to snatch up the lance and Jack’s notes.

 

“Dean?”

 

He looked up to see Cas standing right by him. “Hey, man. You know how I said Jack told me he had found a way to kill Michael?”

 

“You said he  _ might  _ have found a way, yes,” Cas corrected, eyes wandering to the notebook on the table.

 

Dean dragged the log towards the edge of the table for Cas to pick up. “This is it.”

 

Cas read over the last page several times, eyes dancing over the ink marks as he mouthed words. Dean tapped the table nervously, awaiting his response. Surely Cas would find something wrong with it. At the very least, he would warn against its guarantee, so Dean tried not to get his hopes up.

 

“This,” he muttered slowly while placing it back down. “This… might work.”

 

The corner of Dean’s mouth turned up as he silently gasped, eyes involuntarily brightening.

 

“I don’t know how Jack came up with this, but it’s relatively simple,” Cas continued. “The only thing we don’t already have is archangel grace, but I can see if --”

 

“Charlie might still have a vial, from when they were doing those holy fire experiments,” Dean interrupted.

 

“I was going to say, I can see if Gabriel will spare some. But we should probably ask Charlie first anyway. Historically, Gabriel can be a bit stingy when his grace isn’t fully recovered.” 

 

“Ah, I can be the same way before coffee,” Dean excused. He was too high on his recent discovery to be upset by a slight wait. Getting up, he removed the paper, folded it, and slipped it into his back pocket. He then showed Cas the paragraphs he had just read about the lance’s power.

 

Cas furrowed his brows as he read, fully absorbed in the words. “I must admit, his logical reasoning makes a strong case.” He glanced at the broken, inconspicuous lance lying on the table. 

 

Dean took Cas’ face in his hands and planted a firm kiss on his mouth. “This is huge, Cas. If this works like Jack has theorized, then the weapon we need to defeat Michael is two feet away from us.”

 

“I hadn’t realized you even had the Lance of Michael,” Cas pondered. He licked his lips, chasing the taste of Dean. “After I nearly died from its affects, the rest of the night was a bit fuzzy.”

 

“I forgot we had it,” Dean confessed. “Not much use in two pieces. Out of sight, out of mind. Found the thing while dusting.”

 

Cas wrapped his arms around Dean, urging him closer. “By finding this, you might have saved the world… again.”

 

Dean dropped his gaze as Cas pressed his nose against Dean’s. “Aw shucks, Cas. You’re makin’ me blush.”

 

“I suppose I should reward you for this future-altering breakthrough.”

 

Dean’s eyes flew up. 

 

“Perhaps I should take this to Rowena,” Cas said slowly, reaching into Dean’s pocket to pry out the folded paper. “And you ask Charlie about the grace. Meet me in your bedroom later.”

 

“See ya then,” Dean reeled, wasting no time exiting the room to accomplish his task. A surge of triumph coursed through him, and he did a skip on the way to the gun range. He couldn’t wait for Jack to come home so he could spin him around and give him a noogie. The kid had cracked Michael’s code. Dean wanted to thank him for getting him laid tonight, but there was no way he was spoiling his innocence yet, so he tucked that one away under “I owe you one but we’re not gonna talk about it.”

 

* * *

 

The world didn’t know that Michael was hiding away off-trail in a park, curled up against a log, mind buzzing with the low hum of distant angel talk. No one was speaking to him, so the words were unclear, but he didn’t care about that. He cared that they were too close for his comfort.

 

Gabriel was among them. He would be able to wield the archangel blade. Did their world’s Michael come back with them, too? He was too preoccupied with throwing his rightful Sword off a building to notice. He scooted closer to the cold, damp, fallen tree when an especially loud angel voice rang over the radio and mentioned the park in which he was hiding. Someone was there. Were they looking for him?

 

No, no no no. You’re being paranoid, Michael. No one is out looking for you. Someone is out here enjoying the beauty of creation. Yes, that’s it. Stay calm, and your essence will refrain from projecting onto angel radio, and no one will find you. Get back on that trail. If someone recognizes you, smite them. You can melt them away in less time than it takes for them to send out an alert signal. Yes, see? Nothing to worry about.

 

Now, if that incessant buzzing would go away. He turned off his reception to angel radio, but the sound remained. He swatted towards the noise and realized the buzzing wasn’t coming from the angels’ voices; it was a bee.

 

He stood up and brushed the leaves and dirt off of him. The bee followed him up and swarmed around him. He squinted when it darted into his face, and as if goaded on by his reactions, it bumped his face several times. Each time, Michael squirmed and tried to get away, but the blasted bee wouldn’t leave him alone.

 

Finally, he stopped hearing the buzzing sound. He let out a sigh of relief, then began walking towards the trail. He yelped out in discomfort, the pricking pain of a bee sting pulsating from his asscheek. As he grabbed his butt to rub at the soreness, the bee flew out from behind him and buzzed especially loud right in his face, as if in a jeering manner.

 

“Ow!” Michael whined, glaring right at the derisive insect. Visibly weakening, the bee hovered off, its mission complete. He watched until it receded from sight, covered by thick foliage and buzzing off to die. The poison from the sting spread into his whole leg, minimized by his angelic properties but still painful, since his vessel was starting to show signs of wear. What creature in its right mind would discharge a piece of itself that would pronounce its doom, just to cause one person the slightest inconvenience? He shook his head as he held his ass, limping the whole way down the trail. 

 

* * *

 

Dean awoke with a start. Gasping, he sat straight up and immediately noticed his quickened heartbeat. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply until he calmed back down, then glanced to his side. The bedside lamp was still on from when he and Cas fell asleep in each other’s arms after their very loud, very enthusiastic method of celebrating the Lance of Michael. Dean smirked as he recalled making no shortage of dick jokes while referencing to the powerful weapon, and Cas rolling his eyes in response. 

 

But Cas wasn’t in his bed. Actually, it looked like he never was. Curling the corners of his lips down in confusion, Dean climbed out of bed but froze halfway to his dresser. He had fallen asleep butt-crack naked. He woke up wearing sweats and a t-shirt, with Cas’ three-quarters of the bed (although Cas swore it was an even split) meticulously made. 

 

“Cas?” Dean called into the hallway. The bunker was quiet… too quiet. Something was up. 

 

He fell back when he turned around to see himself, mere inches away, wearing an unnatural smile. Dean glared in fury, the cold stare and forced muscle strain a dead giveaway. 

 

“Michael,” Dean gritted. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

 

The man wearing his face shrugged offhandedly. “Are you, though?”

 

Dean glanced around the room, looking for anything else out of place. He was dreaming… wasn’t he? It was better than the alternative. 

 

“Or,” Michael continued while striding easily towards Dean, “have I taken back what’s properly mine?”

 

Dean stepped back as Michael stepped forward. “No, no I woke up with clothes on and Cas missing. Sloppy work, if you’re prancing around in my meat again, wanting me to believe I woke up right where I left off.”

 

“But I didn’t want you to,” Michael grinned. “Because this is your prison now, Dean. No Sam, no Cas, no salty air and girls in bikinis. No music—”

 

“Thank god,” Dean muttered. “That shit bumped hell up to three and a half stars on Yelp.”

 

“And no way out.”

 

“Naw,” Dean shook his head. “This ain’t you. I know you.”

 

“While I’m here, I’m going to crush Cas’ skull while you watch. I’ll tear the limbs right off of Sam’s body. Jack will die screaming. And it’ll all. Be. At. Your. Hands.”

 

“If I wasn’t dreaming, would I be able to do this?” 

 

Dean lunged forward, tackling Michael to the floor and taking a corner of his end table with him. Michael grunted as his head chipped off a piece of the wood on his way down, and flailed his arms while Dean squeezed his neck. 

 

“It’s my dream, and if I wanna beat your ass, I can,” he said as Michael coughed beneath him. 

 

Suddenly immune to Dean’s clutch, Michael seized him and flung him backwards. Expecting to land, Dean tensed up and slammed his eyes shut. When he opened them, it was to wind hissing past him as he freefell down the side of a building. 

 

The ground never seemed any closer, like he was stuck in a vacuum while still feeling himself falling. His body descending faster and faster while not taking up any falling space was disorienting, so he searched the blurred air for a point of reference to latch onto. 

 

“It’s a dream, you asshole!” Dean screamed into the haze, and suddenly he fell onto his back. He had landed in sand. The sun was beating down upon him like an oven. 

 

The beach. 

 

Dean scrambled up in dread, the familiar beach waves and terrible surf music wailing in the distance. He squinted his eyes shut and growled while pressing his hands against his ears. If he had to listen to one more note, he was going to lose his damn mind. 

 

Beeeeep!

 

Dean let out a quick exhale when he turned to see the Impala parked on the boardwalk. He ran as fast as he could across the crunching sand, and splayed grateful hands over the shiny black coat heated by the sun. 

 

“Ol’ girl, am I glad to see you,” Dean breathed.

 

The reunion was abruptly stopped by the sound of a dull crowbar being dragged through the car’s frame. A spark of rage surging through him, Dean whipped his head around to see Michael, again wearing his body. He curled up a conceited smile and continued digging into the car, when Dean dove onto him. 

 

Instead of landing on top of Michael, Dean found himself directly in front of the car with the crowbar above his head. An unseen force controlled his arms, stretching them back like a rubber band, and bringing the heavy iron down with a ruthless smash. He blinked and found himself in a cement room, hovering over Bee. 

 

Dean sucked in an inconsolable gasp. She lied unnaturally still against the cold floor, edgeless depressions all over her body. And then there was the blood. Her blunt wounds pooled with it, indiscriminate splatters painting the nearby walls and floor. Her face was pale and expressionless. 

 

“No,” Dean gushed. The crowbar dripped with her blood; he dropped it and propped her head up. “Hey, Bee. Hey. Oh no.” He shook her gently with no response. “Oh my god. Bee, I am so,  _ so _ sorry.” Dean’s voice cracked as his eyes abruptly filled with tears. 

 

He had killed her. He might not have delivered the blow, like in this psychotic meltdown, but it was his fault. As surely as her blood was on his crowbar. He clenched his mouth shut to hold in a sob, but couldn’t stop a tear from rolling onto her head, upon which his chin was resting. 

 

This wasn’t Michael’s doing. It was Dean’s subconscious doing it to himself, and he knew it. Sick as it was, deep down inside, he knew it from the start. He knew what nightmares were made of; his mind never really let him forget. He had to wake himself up. 

 

After lowering Bee’s lifeless body back onto the concrete, he rose and concentrated on what was beyond these walls. He envisioned the outdoors, and beyond that, a road, and down that a ways, home. He blinked hard, the words  _ open your eyes  _ repeating with every bat. He shook his head, trying to free his mind of the confines of the missile base and every other hellhole he had just fell through. 

 

_ Dean, open your eyes.  _

 

He snarled irritably when the scenery didn’t change. When dragging his nails over his hairline didn’t work, he sent a fist into the solid concrete. He reared back as the throbbing pain of shattered bone echoed through his body. 

 

_ Dean, wake up! _

 

Wait, Cas?

 

_ Dean, you need to open your eyes.  _

 

“Cas!”

 

His eyes shot open mid-word. Pillow and mattress below him, he locked eyes with Cas, who was leaning directly over him and clenching onto one of Dean’s hands. Cas’ other hand was gripping his right shoulder. 

 

“Yes, I’m here,” Cas said soothingly. 

 

Dean rubbed the sleep out of his eyes to get a better look at Cas’ face. He had a large but faint red mark across his nose and cheek. 

 

“Did I slap you?”

 

Cas released Dean’s shoulder in favor of touching the tender area. “That was the kindest thing you did while having that nightmare.”

 

“Damn, Cas. I’m sorry,” Dean gravelled. He sat up to see, to his relief, that they were both still naked. “What other crazy shit did I do?”

 

“You were yelling,” Cas began. “Then you said you were sorry roughly twenty times. But then you kept pushing and pushing, and I fell off the bed.”

 

Dean guffawed. “I kicked you off the bed?”

 

“I do believe your feet were involved somehow, now that you mention it.”

 

As he pulled out a drawer to grab a shirt, Dean wondered how many times Cas was able to lull him out of a nightmare without him getting too violent. And how many times Dean had gotten violent, but never woke up in time to witness the aftermath. In either case, Cas had kept the exact number to himself.

 

“We should get back to the garage,” Dean suggested. 

 

Cas accepted the change of subject and gathered his clothes from the floor. Although he wanted nothing else than for Dean to share what had terrorized him so badly while he was sleeping, Cas knew better. Dean would share if and when he was ready.

 

“Oh and Cas?”

 

Looking up from buttoning his pants, Cas noticed a detectable shift in Dean’s demeanor. He didn’t look as stone hard as when he usually awoke from nightmares. He didn’t know if it was from using mind connection techniques he learned from Bee, but Dean appeared more transparent, more raw, than times before. It encouraged and unnerved him. He was so accustomed to the solid steel front that anything softer took him by surprise.

 

“Thanks for jumping in and pulling me out,” Dean finished.

 

Cas smiled serenely. As he finished dressing himself, he wondered what horrors Dean had faced this time. He wondered it every time he comforted Dean through a nightmare, but this time was the hardest he’d ever fought to get him back in charge of his own mind. Maybe the real question was, if Dean usually had the lucidity to force himself awake, what lingering influence was the strongest person Cas knew warring against? Was this the after effects of Michael, or was Dean facing his own darkness and reacting in terror to what he saw?

 

He wasn’t certain, but he would be willing to bet on a little of both. Michael had affected him, no doubt. But more than that, Dean was also left with heightened self-deprecation and guilt. In a year full of making decisions between bad and worse, he left very little grace for himself. Perhaps the least Cas could do was show him that grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. In. This. Chapter! 
> 
> Let's talk about the lance. I've actually been subtly foreshadowing this. If you're following these posts on Tumblr, you've seen the cover art. It's got the painting of Michael stomping on Satan's head, while holding his lance. Also, I mentioned a "broken spear" Jack came across while dusting back in chapter six. So, I've been hiding the solution to the Michael problem in plain sight this WHOLE time. You mad? xD
> 
> There isn't a lot out there on the Lance of Michael, by way of SPN lore. It's been in precisely one episode, excluding the appearances as a painting alone. All we know about it, we learned from Crowley. It's not even clear who ended up with it after Cas was healed. However, there is enormous potential to bring it back into the story line, so I took it and ran with it.
> 
> Only a couple more chapters to go! It's crunch time; who's getting nervous?! Share your thoughts in a comment or come stalk me on Tumblr: @deans-jiggly-pudding


	19. Slow Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack works out a deal with the angels to ensure a happy ending for the one person who's still missing someone. The family celebrates the return of two members, plus an announcement from Dean and Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! Ending a story is the hardest part for me, so I'm reading through to make sure I tie up all the loose ends. Only one more chapter after this! Are you guys ready for the grand finale?!?
> 
> Speaking of reading through, holy cow there are some errors. This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. I will go back and correct them eventually. Thank you for sticking with me through the little oopsies. I write most of this at 2am, and at that point I'm just grateful my brain is still functioning enough to type. Sorry if anything was confusing. LOL
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: This is going to have some top!Dean with a dominant streak a mile wide. I know, I know, dom!top!Cas is life, but I wanted to give Dean his turn. I think they'd switch in real life, too, and for the voting that took place at the end of chapter 6, that was only for who'd top *first*. I hope you enjoy, but if you're not a fan of top!Dean, you can skip the last half of the chapter :)

“We will do as you ask on one condition,” Duma said with an upturned lip. She looked like she had taken a sip of spoiled milk. “We will allow the soul of one of your creatures into heaven, if you agree to create more angels. Heaven is strong again, but we still lack the numbers we had in the beginning.”

 

Jack thought carefully. This was his first visit into heaven, and although most of the angels looked at him like he was an abomination, they at least respected him for pulling them out of the Empty. It was understandable for their opinions of him to be conflicted, but he needed this leverage for his advantage.

 

“No,” he replied, sitting in a white chair Duma had supplied. “Her soul fate is your payment for me resurrecting all of you. Me creating more angels? That will take an immense expenditure of energy.”

 

Duma groaned lightly and clenched her fists. “What is it you want, then?”

 

Jack stood up to leave. “I would like anything else I make in the future to know they also have a home in heaven, waiting for them when they die.”

 

“Anything else?” she repeated. “You’re going to make more… more _things…_ like her?”

 

Jack shot a vexed glare at Duma. She cringed and looked down. “It’s possible,” he answered. “I’m not saying I am, but in case I do, I want their souls to be prepared.”

 

“Fine,” she gritted.

 

Satisfied with his visit, Jack stepped into the portal and left the celestial city. On his way back to the playground, he thought back to his conversation with Charlie right before he took off with Mary and Bobby. Dean had been avoiding him, and Cas was kind but constantly looked like he wanted to scold him for dying, but Charlie wasn’t shy around him.

 

“Jack, I need to talk to you,” he recalled her addressing him with tear-stained cheeks. Her knock was barely loud enough to hear, but his head popped up when he heard his name.

 

“What is it, Charlie?” he asked sitting cross-legged on his bed, bent over an empty journal.

 

She closed the door after her, eye contact not faltering. “It’s about Bee.”

 

Jack set down his pen and sat up straight.

 

“First off,” she began, “you should know that Bee and I were in love. She was… geez, she was so awesome. She’s sweet, caring, and compassionate. But takes zero crap from anyone. Took, I mean.” Her smile fell as she corrected her tenses. “Secondly, I am totally not on board with how you put her together basically just to take her apart. But that’s besides the point.”

 

Jack furrowed his brows as he gave Charlie his undivided attention. Her voice shook, and whether it was out of nervousness or low-simmering rage was anyone’s guess. He couldn’t fault her for being upset with him. It was the nature of being a creator. Plus, she was right. He could’ve handled Bee immensely better, if he had been a bit more forward-thinking.

 

Charlie pointed out of his room, towards the archives. “You made something in there, that Rowena ended up having to sacrifice to bring you back. I think you made it on purpose, yes?”

 

Jack nodded.

 

“Everything in that room was made for a reason. You made that three-eyed creature out of nothing so we could bring you back. Just like you made Bee the way she was so we could bring you back.”

 

“Yes,” Jack confirmed.

 

“My point is,” she continued, “that even though I don’t necessarily approve of your methods, I’m uh, a pretty big fan of your work.” She looked off to the side, a half-smile breaking just by thinking of her girlfriend. Jack smiled understandingly, and Charlie looked back up to finish. “I know you can make stuff out of nothing now. So remake her.”

 

Jack slid the journal over and stepped onto the floor. Running through each component of rebuilding the end result without the original host, he crossed his arms and fell into deep thought.

 

Seeing his hesitation, Charlie pushed further. “And also, I want her soul to be destined for heaven, so I have the chance to see her again when we both die.”

 

Jack looked up from his careful planning of every subtlety of Bee’s being. The blueprints were still embedded in his mind from last time, so the concept of soul fate dwarfed the issue of her reconstruction in the area of complexity.

 

“I will have to work out a deal with heaven for that part,” Jack informed. “Anything besides what I assigned for her soul is outside my usual jurisdiction.”

 

Charlie perked up. “Does that mean you can bring her back?”

 

Jack smiled brightly. “It’ll take quite a bit of power, but give me a few days, and once I replenish --”

 

“Yes!” she exclaimed, latching onto him. “Thank you Jack, oh wow. You’re the best. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love her so much.” She released him and let out a relieved sigh. “What was her soul assigned to, anyway? The Empty?”  


“Oh no,” Jack said concretely. “I programmed her soul to recycle back into the universe.”

 

Charlie blinked. “Reincarnation?”

 

He nodded. “Yes, I believe that’s the proper name for it.”

 

And so there he was, knocking on heaven’s door for a deal, with which he returned, much to Charlie’s delight. The grin on his face told the whole story, and she jumped up and down clapping at the playground.

 

“I’m going to need a few days to get up to strength,” Jack warned. “I won’t be able to do it if I try it now.”

 

“It’s okay,” she assured him joyously. “Go with Bobby and Mary on their next hunt. You can practice while you’re gone. Oh and Jack?” The gravel stopped crunching under their feet as they paused on the way to Cas’ car. “Don’t tell Dean. I want him to be surprised.”

 

And so the secret remained. Bobby and Mary were nothing but supportive as Jack went at his own pace on the hunt. While he was gone, Charlie got a visit from Dean, who asked for a leftover vial of archangel grace. He acted surprised when she actually smiled at him, but he didn’t push the issue.

 

After Bobby and Mary quietly dropped off Jack on their way to a nasty rugaru case in North Carolina, he went directly to Charlie’s room without as much as a hello to the rest of the bunker residents. Singularly focused, he mulled over the framework and finely tuned details in his head, remembering every little thing he had done the first time.

 

“You’re not going to change anything, right?” Charlie clarified as they both sat on her bed. “I don’t want a single thing about her to be different.”

 

“Don’t worry, she’ll be the same as last time.”

 

Charlie nodded contentedly and looked at the space Jack was focusing on in the center of the room. To anyone else, it looked like he was staring a hole into the wall, but behind his eyes, the gears were turning, measuring, working. Misty wind swirled around, knocking a lamp over and narrowing until the air revolved just in the room’s center, where it condensed into a mass. Jack closed his eyes and held out his palm, transferring intent from his mind into the open air.

 

Mind dizzying from the rapid succession of information running through his brain, he held onto the bed to keep himself from toppling over and losing concentration. He could sense her presence accumulating before him, but kept his eyes clamped shut until every last component was in place. After finishing off the last details, Jack opened his eyes to see Bee, exactly as he and Charlie remembered her, facing away from them, looking at her hands.

 

He looked to his side to see Charlie, who was covering her mouth to keep from screaming. Her eyes were wide, overwhelmed by the construction of something out of nothing, and overjoyed that it was this specific someone. He decided it would be best for both of them if he wasn’t there, so he teleported out.

 

Hands. Those were the first things she noticed. She took a breath. She was alive. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the last thing she remembered. Her mouth on Charlie’s. Jumping off the roof. _But you can fix a car_. And then, nothing. She looked at the wall, and then realized why it looked so familiar. She spun around and sucked in a loud gasp.

 

“Charlie!”

 

The redhead leapt off the bed and jump-hugged Bee, who caught her and spun her around.

 

“Bee,” Charlie cried. “It’s you! Bee, it’s you.” She was sobbing in Bee’s arms, fully supported by her strength and showing no signs of letting go.

 

Bee took in the thrill of the senses she once again experienced. The smell of Charlie’s hair. The sound of her voice. The sight of everything around her. The haze she had awoken in settled as she rooted herself in the here and now, and she sighed against Charlie’s neck when the realization set in that she was here to stay this time.

 

“Did Jack…?” she began.

 

“Outta nothing!” Charlie exclaimed, beaming. “You’re one hundred percent you, no strings attached.”

 

Bee’s eyes brightened. She broke the embrace but held onto Charlie’s hands. “I don’t have to turn back!”

 

“Nothing to turn back to, darling,” Charlie declared. “Also, your soul is now tied to heaven, instead of the earth. But besides that, everything is the same. I even got him to keep your strength and speed.”

 

Bee grinned. “Because it’s badass?”

 

Charlie chuckled and smacked her lips onto Bee’s. “Because it’s badass.”

 

* * *

 

Cas was out on a grocery run, much to Dean’s displeasure. They could’ve had the Impala back up and running far before now if he had helped out as much as Dean wanted him to. If he was being honest, he just wanted the company, and the occasional angel kiss. But complaining was more fun.

 

He was nearly done. Just the business under the hood and a new windshield and Baby would be brand new again. His chest swelled with pride as he looked over his work, taking one more picture with his phone to record the progress, and delved elbow-deep into the engine space.

 

Back hurting and not in the mood to drag himself back up for tools, he was relieved to hear someone enter through the squeaky bunker door.

 

“Hey,” he called from under the hood. “Whoever that is, grab me those pliers.”

 

In a few short seconds, the tool was in his extended hand.

 

“This thing is a cluster,” Dean muttered to whoever had entered the garage. “Gonna need a brass punch pretty soon.” The nearby sound of hands rummaging through his toolbox was the only thing interrupting the handheld radio on low volume sitting on the dashboard. The heavy rod tapped him on the forearm and he grabbed it. Maybe it was Sam, being a little shit and waiting to scare him.

 

“And a, uh…” he paused. He backed up enough to lean on his elbows and assess the situation. His brows furrowed as he contemplated which tool to ask for, and took the wrench that had been placed near his hand.

 

“No, I need the torque --” he began, but stopped when he peered down into the car’s inner workings. “Actually, yeah this’ll work.” Since when did Sam know more about his own damn car than him? He shrugged it off and continued working.

 

This was the worst shape the front end had ever been in. She had been hit by a semi on the side, barrelled through glass signs, houses, and Chuck knows what else, but this fall had really done her in. All four sides had been impacted by the fall, but the undercarriage and engine had taken the brunt of it. But you would never know it looking at her now. She was almost finished, and Dean smiled to himself thinking about how good it would feel to start up that engine again.

 

The radio clicked off.

 

“My god, this Pink Floyd is depressing. I’m putting on some Zeppelin.”

 

Dean jolted up at the sound of the familiar voice. He belted to the side of the car, where Bee was reclining in the driver’s seat, ankles crossed against the dash. She dropped the radio onto the passenger seat and faced him.

 

“And I swear, sitting in this car is the weirdest shit ever. I feel like I’m havin’ an out of body experience.”

 

Dean threw the driver’s door open. “Bee!”

 

“Mr. ‘Dubs!” she shouted with a huge grin.

 

Dean didn’t even wait for her to take her feet down and climb out. He hauled her upward and brought her into a tight squeeze, enveloping her as much as possible for fear she would disappear again. He rasped a long string of “oh my god”s and “what the fuck”s that took all tone out of his voice as his throat ran on and on without any spit recoating it. He coughed at the end and gave up on the failed attempt at words, instead swallowing and falling quiet.

 

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

 

He pulled away and looked stern. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

 

Bee’s mouth dropped open and she cocked her head crossly. “Are you trying to tell me what to do, young man?”

 

He held his hands up. “What? Uh, no ma’am. I just uhh…”

 

She raised a brow.

 

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he admitted. “But seriously. I have so many questions.”

 

“I’ll tell you guys at dinner. The short version is, Charlie made a special request to Jack.”

 

“Awesome. Windshield still needs to cure so I’ll grab Sam and Cas and we can all head out. I’ve got pictures to show you, too.”

 

“Far out,” she said as they approached the bunker door. “Now then. I’m not dead. Let’s party!”

 

* * *

 

The table for six never quieted down the entire time they were seated. Sam ended up being the spokesperson, letting the server know if they needed more time and thanking her for refilling drinks. At last, they could celebrate as a complete family.

 

“Damn,” Bee breathed at the first picture Dean showed her. The car was angled into asphalt nose first with a tow truck in the background. “You’re welcome for keepin’ you from becoming road pizza.”

 

Dean, who would’ve sunk into guilt outside of this strangely specific context, laughed out loud. Everyone around him was sharing a different story, Cas was wiping something off his face, and he was so high on the buoyant atmosphere that he threw his head back and closed his eyes to fully feel the laughter rumbling through him. It wasn’t even that funny, but he was so damn happy, he was going to milk it.

 

Bee shook her head and swiped through a couple more pictures. Frame by frame, the Impala regained more and more of its original splendor. Never in any of the pictures, the photographer tirelessly logged each step closer to completion. He was determined to do everything right, and painstakingly adhered to every detail.

 

“By the way,” he remarked after the table’s latest bout of laughter subsided. “Any idea where that army man and bunch’a Legos are?”

 

Bee recalled slipping them into Charlie’s laptop bag after her rescue. “I have them.”

 

“How’d you even get the army guy out? He was really stuck.”

 

“Michael ripped it out of my skull.”

 

Dean’s countenance instantly fell. He hoped Bee was joking, but she drank from her glass and avoided eye contact without any further commentary.

 

“I am really going to enjoy killing that bastard,” he murmured before sliding to the next photo.

 

Upon seeing it, Bee cleared her throat and looked away. It was a picture of him and Cas. Nothing overly intimate, just… private. They were touching foreheads and smiling shyly, most likely a result of a “I need a new background, here let’s take a picture” moment. Dean instinctively put his finger on the screen to swipe, but stopped himself.

 

“Sorry,” Bee offered.

 

“No, it’s okay,” Dean excused. “It’s not like you don’t know, anyway.” He leaned toward Cas and whispered something in his ear, to which Cas nodded. Everyone fell quiet when Dean stood up and cleared his throat, including a couple of tables surrounding them. He looked to his right at Cas, Jack, and Sam; and to his left at Bee and Charlie.

 

“Um,” he began, not expecting everyone to be so silent so quickly. “Cas and I want to let you guys know that we uh,” he looked down at his blue eyed angel below and swallowed. “Well, things have always been kinda different with us. First time I met the guy, I stabbed him.” He chuckled, and the rest of the table glanced sympathetically at Cas. “Our uh, relationship, is unusual. We’ve been through a lot. But we’ve always come back to each other. So um,” he cleared his throat again and started wiping away the condensation on his glass nervously. “We’re seeing each other. Me and Cas.”

 

Sam jumped up and scooted his chair back to give Dean a bear hug. The rest of the table cheered and clapped, and a few neighboring diners joined in.

 

“I wanted you guys to be the first ones to know,” Dean continued after Sam sat back down. He was a little more relaxed now that the bulk of it was over. “Some of you might’ve already suspected, but we just wanted to make it official. After this I’m calling mom and Bobby, and Rowena, and some of the others to let them know. But uh, you guys heard it here first. So…”

 

Cas tugged at Dean’s arm once he started trailing off, and Dean sat back down to begin calling. He wanted to get it all done in one night, so he and Cas could begin the next day out and proud. Dean covered one ear and held his phone to the other to hear himself above the restaurant bustle and Sam and Bee shared a knowing glance; those two had known for an awfully long time, and it was so relieving to finally hear it in the open air.

 

Back at home, Dean picked up the army man and Legos from Charlie’s room and insisted that Cas join him in the garage once more. The windshield had just finished drying, and his last few tweaks on the engine were done, calling this project a done deal.

 

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Dean beamed from behind the camera on his phone. “Hold up, gotta get her good side.” He chuckled in between shots. “Just kidding, they’re all good.” He opened the back door and smashed the green army man into the ashtray. The Legos, he could throw in later. Tonight wasn’t about that, anyway.

 

“It’s finished,” Cas observed. “You did a beautiful job, Dean.”

 

With a subtle smirk, Dean whipped around Cas to lock the bunker door and swooped back around to grab his hands. He led Cas deeper into the garage until they stopped right outside the Impala’s back door.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Dean stood chest to chest with Cas right outside the car. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since I got her towed back here. How perfect you would look on your back, against that leather seat.” Dean reached on either side of Cas’ trench coat and yanked it down his shoulders. “Love it when I’m underneath you, Cas,” he hissed while jerking and pulling at Cas’ three-too-many tops. “But here,” he paused to open the creaky door and shove him in, “on my turf,” he climbed over him, emerald eyes sinking deep into sapphire. “Castiel, you’re mine.”

 

Desire taking hold of him, Cas began clawing at Dean’s clothes; the only thought running through his mind being Dean, taking control, right here where he was most comfortable. Dean smacked his hands back and raised himself to remove his shirt, and before Cas could untuck his own shirt, Dean moved his hands away again.

 

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” Dean purred. “This is my party.”

 

Cas leaned up on his elbows to watch Dean whip his belt out and throw it onto the floor. He removed shoes, socks, and his jeans, and it really shouldn’t have been that sexy, but here Cas was with a boner tenting in his pants. Biting his lip, Dean dragged Cas by his legs closer to the door to pull off his pants, which elicited a surprised intake of breath. By the time Dean had Cas completely naked, Cas was aching with the need to touch, to be touched.

 

“Look at you,” Dean breathed against Cas’ neck, now hovering over him teasingly in nothing but his boxer briefs. “All hot and bothered. Do you want something, _em mononusa_?”

 

Cas quivered at the sound of his mother tongue rolling off of Dean’s lips. He clamped his eyes shut to concentrate on keeping from blowing his load, right here, right now, untouched. Dean’s warm breath was obscene against his skin, and it went straight to his throbbing cock.

 

“Open your eyes, Castiel,” Dean ordered. Dammit if he wasn’t going to pull out all the tricks while he called the shots. He held Cas’ chin between his thumb and forefinger until his eyes fluttered open.

 

“Dean,” Cas rasped. “Please, Dean.”

 

A low chuckle rumbled in Dean’s throat behind closed lips. “Sweetheart, what’s the rush?”

 

Words escaped him as Dean latched onto Cas’ neck and sucked. Dean moved up with his lips and tongue, their scruff burning abrasively against each other. Cas let out a long moan as Dean finally made it to his mouth and sucked on his bottom lip, arms thrashing against the leather in frustration at being forbidden to touch back.

 

Dean hushed the depraved sounds coming out of Cas’ mouth by crashing their faces together, noses bumping and teeth scraping hastily. Their tongues finally found each other, and they licked and sucked into each others’ mouths while the hair on their faces scratched light red burns into their chins and cheeks. Cas’ hands grasped Dean’s hair and neck, and when Dean didn’t rebuke him, wandered down to his defined biceps.

 

“Dean, I…” Cas groaned, wrapping one leg around his waist. The other was crushed between the backseat and Dean, but he was hoping to get the point across.

 

“So damn impatient, Cas,” Dean teased. He drew back to slip off his boxer briefs and slid between Cas’ legs to grind against him. Their cocks brushed and Cas shouted at the simple contact, his own need pulsating throughout his entire body.

 

Dean gazed in amazement at the sight. Castiel, angel of the lord. True form the size of the Chrysler Building. Powerful enough to lay waste to entire cities, and here he was, in the backseat of Dean’s car, come completely undone. He was a wreck. His cheeks flushed with blood rushing everywhere, a thick bead of precome slowly cascaded down his cock, and his voice shook with need. What a far cry from the creature that humans wrote songs to praise and lesser beings feared.

 

As Cas looked up at the man above him, he saw a wonder the casual passerby would simply write off as a pretty face. Dean had scars on his face from the crash in Wichita, a deep cut across his side still healing from a run-in with some vamps, and dozens of other whitened scars from over the years. He was a hero. To the world, and to Cas.

 

Taking a chance against having his hand pulled off, Cas cupped his fingers around Dean’s jaw and drew in his gaze.

 

“You are so beautiful,” Cas uttered. His eyes were fully focused, like he was looking behind the eyes and into his soul. “Dean, I… You are so good to me. So good for me.”

 

Taken by surprise, Dean blushed but didn’t swat his hand away. “Woah Cas, I’m supposed to be complimenting you here.”

 

“I mean it,” he defended. “I love you, Dean. I want every bit of you. Will you give me that? All of you?”

 

Dean looked into Cas’ eyes with more love than he ever thought possible. “Yeah Cas, I’m gonna do that. Shit, you sure are a sweet talker.” He got up to rustle around in his discarded jeans. “Don’t laugh. I carried lube around with me all night ‘cause I’ve been waiting for my chance to pounce ya.”

 

Cas didn’t care. All he could think about was _Dean_. Gazing into his eyes. The hitch in his breath right before he reached orgasm. The prominence of his arm muscles and the freckles scattered across his shoulders. He wanted it all.

 

When Dean started wetting his fingers, Cas almost told him to forgo prep since he was an angel and he couldn’t be hurt that way, but he kept his mouth shut. He reclined back and propped his right led around the driver’s back cushion to spread himself.

 

Seeing Cas like this made Dean smile uncontrollably. He might never turn down a chance to get dicked down, but under the right circumstances, having Cas at his mercy sparked a dominant part of him that grew more and more wild with every touch they shared. He gently pressed his finger into Cas, who took him with ease and arched his back. Cas moaned gratefully as Dean pumped in and out of him, adding his middle finger and curling upward.

 

“More, please Dean,” Cas begged.

 

After adding another finger and adjusting his angle, Dean earned a loud gasp out of Cas. He made another pass, and Cas’ eyes widened as his whole body jolted in reaction.

 

“Dean,” he yelled. “That… that felt… so good. Dean please do that again.”

 

And like the tease he was, Dean pulled his fingers out of Cas’ slick hole and committed to memory everything about this moment: How his name sounded when Cas shouted it. The exact location of his prostate. His open mouth and furrowed brows when delirious with want.

 

Instead, Dean splayed his hands across Cas’ firm chest and kissed the whimper right off. His own cock was so ready to go it wasn’t even funny, and he needed a hot minute to calm himself if he wanted to last as long as he wanted. Of course, Cas returned the kiss with equal fervor, hardly able to get enough of everything about Dean’s mouth. They fit together perfectly. Like pieces of the universe separated by an explosion and traveling billions of years only to find each other again.

 

Dean popped off of Cas’ mouth with a smack, lips pink and swollen. “Tell me what you want, Cas. I want to hear you say it.”

 

Cas never realized how much he loved being reduced to this. “I want you inside me,” he replied shamelessly. “And don’t be gentle, Dean. You aren’t going to break me.”

 

Emboldened by the explicit sanction, Dean guided his cock into Cas’ ready ass. He groaned with every inch further Cas took him, until his pelvis was fully seated against Cas. Dean closed his eyes to catch his breath, the sensation of his cock being swallowed so tight and hot overwhelming. When Cas pushed himself down to encourage Dean to move, he held his hand up.

 

“Wait,” Dean said. “I know you’re ready, but I’m not.”

 

“Take your time,” Cas encouraged.

 

“Okay,” Dean murmured, more to himself than anyone else, and opened his eyes. “Okay, okay.”

 

As Dean began his first pull out, Cas felt himself growing empty again and let out a small whine. Dean stopped at the tip, then without warning, made a long, deep plunge that grazed Cas’ prostate. He cried out as white spots clouded his vision, and held on tight as Dean began a furious pace.

  


Dean leveraged himself between the front and back seats, gripping, pushing, pulling, never wavering for a single thrust. He took Cas’ cock in one hand and worked him up and down, and Cas held onto his shoulders tighter while whispering his name over and over.

 

“You feel so good, Cas,” Dean said between pants. “It feels so good to be inside you. Fuck, you make me so happy.”

 

Cas could hardly form words amidst the heat and passion he felt Dean spreading everywhere within him. “Good. You deserve to be happy, Dean.”

 

Something contrary stopped just behind Dean’s tongue. He felt so good he didn’t feel like fighting it. So he let Cas get away with it. And as he soared higher and higher while giving Cas every inch of his love, just for a second, he allowed himself to believe it. Maybe he does deserve this. Maybe he deserves Cas.

 

When Cas came with a shout, Dean snapped out of his daze to squeeze his cock through his orgasm and savor the warm, white spend dripping down his hand. When Cas let out one last sigh of satisfaction, Dean released him and pulled out. Confused, Cas took Dean’s less messy outstretched hand and allowed himself to be pulled out of the car.

 

“Bend over,” Dean ordered, nudging him head down onto the hood.

 

Laid out across the front of the car, Cas simply held on for the ride as Dean gripped his thighs to spread him enough to watch his length bury itself inside Cas. His own come was cooling and sticky against his leg, and Dean dug his fingers in extra tight on that side to keep from sliding. Being filled again was euphoric, and Cas arched his back even more in an effort to feel more: Dean’s cock curling deep inside him, his balls slapping his ass at the apex of each thrust, the force of Dean’s body rocking the car along with him.

 

“So close, Cas,” he hissed, eyes clamped shut to intensify his other senses. Cas felt amazing. His skin was firm, begging to be squeezed. His ass was an utter dream to fuck, taking so well what Dean gave him. The air around them smelled of cold air, motor oil, and the warmth between them. And the sounds coming from their bodies and mouths told a wordless story of fervor and urgency.

 

Cas felt Dean’s thrusts grow irregular as the build reached its peak. “I love you so much, Dean.”

 

And with a long, throaty groan, Dean came inside Cas, flooding his hole and creating wet noises as he pushed his load as far in as he could. Cas’ sweaty palms squeaked against the hood as he pushed against the car, backing himself into Dean until there was nothing between, nothing but each other and the fire they shared.

 

All energy expended and knees weak, Dean slumped over Cas and held his waist as he planted soft kisses over his back. His thumbs rubbed tiny circles in Cas’ skin and his lips carried his lover’s name over and over in hushed whispers. Underneath him, Cas lay limp and perfectly debauched, heart still pounding and back rising with deep breaths.

 

Dean pulled out and stood upright in one unbroken motion, smiling to himself when Cas huffed at the sudden emptiness. With no regard for his messy hand or newly spent come now dripping onto the paint job, Dean gently lifted turned Cas to face him and helped him to his feet. Cas reached around Dean’s neck with muscular arms now feeble from the airy afterglow.

 

“You okay?” Dean asked after a tender kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth.

 

“Mmm hmm,” he hummed back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t want it to end.”

 

Dean pulled Cas close and spoke against his cheek. “That’s what I like to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy with how you guys have enjoyed this story. I didn't expect it to be so well-received, so thank you! I will crank out that last chapter next week. I'm so thankful for every kudos and comment. I know some of you might be waiting to share the story until it's completed, which is totally fair, and I thank you for thinking of Fighting My Way Back when you think of a fic you love. <3


	20. Fighting My Way Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels join forces with Sam, Dean, Cas, and the other bunker residents to rid the world of Michael once and for all. During the subsequent celebration, Cas and Dean do some celebrating of their own. All in all, it's a day of victory in the Winchester house, even though the effects of Dean's trauma are more far-reaching than even the poison from the Lance of Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, thiiis iiis iiit! Gahh! I'm finally done! Thank you to everyone who has supported me through this project, through reblogs, kudos, shares, and word of mouth. I'm so excited to mark this "complete" at last. If you've been waiting until the end to comment, I can't wait to hear what you thought of the story. Please spare no details. If you've been commenting anyway, you've been a huge motivation for me. I write for myself, but it's so encouraging to see people expressing their thoughts along the way. Also, goodies in the end notes, for those who have been looking for the easter eggs! :)
> 
> Thanks again for reading! <3 Find me on Tumblr and shoot me an ask: deans-jiggly-pudding

Cas wore his collar a little higher to hide the hickey Dean had given him the night before. Gathered around the War Table, he, Dean, Sam, and the others went over the plan to corner Michael with united attentiveness. Everyone had a place in the fight and took their roles seriously.

 

“Jody and Claire, you’re going to be Dean’s line of defense,” Sam explained. “You’ll keep him out of Michael’s sight until he can get close enough to use the lance on him. Mom and Bobby, I need you to block his exit while those three close in. Gabriel?”

 

“Samsquatch,” he replied playfully.

 

“Rowena is going to use a cloaking spell on you and the other angels so you can sneak up on Michael. Cas and Jack, lead Michael towards the ambush. Keep the lines of communication open so you constantly know each other’s locations.”

 

Gabriel’s hand shot up. “Question.”

 

“Yes?” Sam sighed.

 

“How are we supposed to communicate between ourselves if Michael will hear us on angel radio?”

 

Sam blinked. “Cell phones, Gabe.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Charlie, Bee, and I will have the holy oil. We’ll trap him if he tries to smoke out. Does everyone understand?”

 

The twelve gathered around the table nodded. Meeting adjourned, the ones sitting scooted their chairs back and the ones standing got a head start in gathering equipment. The dragon had taken a liking to Rowena and was perched on her shoulder while she packed spellbooks and ingredients. Bee and Sam carried clay oil pots, while Charlie found the extra lighters.

 

Dean’s task was simple: Kill Michael. He took up the renewed lance, powerful energy radiating off of its recent repair. The embedded runes glistened against the smooth wooden finish, its splendor overshadowed only by the shine of the double-edged head. He wrapped the sharp end in thick layers of leather hide and tied it up for the journey to Michael’s hideout.

 

Bobby and Mary led the caravan. Updates on Michael’s whereabouts were constantly updated via texts from Bobby’s spies, who were following him especially closely today. Right behind them, Dean would roll in, followed by Cas. 

 

The engine’s low rumble rolled through the garage, and Dean sat back against the driver’s seat with a gratified sigh. Jack, Charlie, and Bee piled into the back, while Sam slipped into the passenger seat and waited for Dean to have his moment. After a beep from Bobby’s truck, Dean jumped out the slight trance induced by the Impala’s bass purr. He cleared his throat and snapped on the heat, and slight rattling could be heard from deep within the heater core.

 

Cas brought up the rear, accompanied by Rowena, Jody, and Claire. He offered Gabriel a ride, who insisted on flying with the other angels. The rest of the car fell respectfully quiet as Rowena began preparing the cloaking spell. As they fell into line leaving the bunker, the only noise to be heard was the loudly blaring stereo coming from the Impala in front of them. It lightened the mood, which made Cas and the others in his car smile.

 

The three vehicles pulled into the performing arts theater parking lot. Cas immediately sensed the super energy emanating from within, and he gave Rowena a small nod to begin the cloaking. 

 

“You know what I’m about to tell you, right?” Jody directed at Claire as they exited the car.

 

“Be careful, don’t die, make us all proud?” Claire presumed flatly.

 

Jody shook her head but pursed her lips into a smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but I was going to say ‘You’ve got this.’”

 

“We’ve got this,” Claire corrected. “Now let’s go give this coward something to cry about.”

 

Dean opened the Impala trunk and propped up the tire board with the sawed off shotgun. Sam reached around him to grab the holy oil while Dean grabbed two angel blades. They wouldn’t stop Michael from hurting Jack and Cas, but they might buy some time.

 

“You ready, kid?” Dean asked Jack as he handed over one of the blades. 

 

Jack nodded, but he was visibly nervous. “I’ll do my very best.”

 

“You always do. I’m really proud of you, Jack.”

 

His face lightened slightly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you again.”

 

“Nothing will. I’ve got a nephilim and an angel guarding me.” Dean clapped his shoulder. “I’ve got faith in you. Let’s go.” Turning his attention to Cas, he passed off the other weapon and the two nodded at each other wordlessly. Dean’s steel facade never shifted as he met Cas’ gaze. He absolutely could not let his confident manner waver now. Cas needed him to be strong. The whole group needed him to be strong.

 

After shutting the creaky trunk, Dean stepped to the side of the car where Bee held the Lance of Michael. It didn’t fit in the trunk, so they had to finagle it between the front and back seats and keep it from sliding into the passengers’ faces every time Dean took a sharp turn with no brakes. She extended the lance, still wrapped in leather, and Dean felt the true weight of it when he took it.

 

“We’ve got your back,” she said firmly. “Just keep fighting. You’re going to be okay.”

 

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but instead let out an exhale of pent-up nervous energy and nodded. He looked at the lethal weapon in his hands, then out to his comrades. He had made it this far. Through possession, a coma, night terrors, and attempted murder, he had survived. Amid the imprisonment of lying unconscious on a hospital bed, he and Cas had done away with the walls that once stopped them. And now he was back with a vengeance.

 

Bobby and Mary hustled to the backdoors of the theater as the rest of them approached the double doors out front. Rowena had stayed behind to repeat the incantation, and as her pile of herbs and crystals smoked, an army of hundreds of angels descended upon the building. Not wasting time with decorum, Dean kicked the door in and the throngs of angels and people marched in.

 

“Hey,” Gabriel stage-whispered to Sam. “After this whole ordeal, we can keep each other’s numbers, right?”

 

Sam furrowed his brows and looked down at the winking archangel.

 

“Uh, I guess?”

 

“Good. I was gonna keep yours anyway.”

 

Sam took two long strides ahead so Gabriel wouldn’t see his reddening face. Jody and Claire covered Dean’s blind spots on either side, while Cas and Jack walked ahead, towards the low hum coming from the auditorium. Once his blush subsided, Sam placed a hand on the door and nodded to Gabriel, signaling for his army to come forward.

 

On three, Sam swung open the door and angels poured into the wide room. What few lights were on pointed towards the stage, along with some recessive lighting above the chairs, making for an eerie yellow glow choked by widespread shadows. Gabriel pushed his way to the front to listen, the nearby archangel essence out of humans’ hearing range and barely loud enough for them to pick up on. He followed his instincts to the stage, where a large wooden chest sat in the dead middle. The grace reverberated higher from within it, and he shot a glance behind him before throwing it open.

 

Some of the other angels swooped in closer, expecting a fight, but the chest was empty except for a large vial of grace. Gabriel picked it up with both hands and shrugged toward the back of the auditorium, where Sam was observing cautiously. One of the shadows towards the curtain shifted.

 

“Gabe!” Sam bellowed, but too late. Michael emerged from the darkness and threw his palm up, throwing Gabriel off the stage. He landed with a huff in the second row, and the other angels positioned themselves defensively. A few of them took the sides while most of them stood between Michael and Gabriel.

 

“This happened when I fought someone else,” Michael laughed as he recalled his recent battle. “It didn’t end well for him. Do they teach all of you the same horrible tricks in archangel school here?”

 

“Get him!” Gabriel yelled from behind the theater chairs. His legs stuck up in the air and one arm waved above the row as he clamored for something to grab. 

 

As several angels lunged forward, Michael disappeared. Sam ran to the front of the stage with his oil bottle, while Bee and Charlie split to either side. Cas and Jack peeked into the auditorium, holding Dean back from making his presence known.

 

“Quick, while he’s gone,” Sam said, pouring a circle of oil in front of the orchestra. “Put these everywhere, and once he comes back, light up the one he lands in.”

 

While Sam, Charlie, and Bee distributed the holy oil, Cas and Jack led Dean, Jody, and Claire onto the stage and behind the curtain. Gabriel ended up crawling through the row and into the aisle, eventually joining his forces as they unsheathed their blades and awaited Michael’s return. Charlie poured a loop around a few of the rows and in front of the orchestra. Bee made a giant circle on stage around the wooden chest, which held the grace vial Gabriel had dropped right before Michael tossed him.

 

Dean watched through a slivered opening in the curtains as Sam hid his oil jug under the front row and hopped on stage, looking around to make sure Michael hadn’t sneaked back in while they were preparing. He clutched onto the lance, seething with determination. He pondered the poetic justice of this archangel’s own weapon ending him in such a slow, painful manner. Silently, he hoped Michael’s death would be the most horrendous for this blade to inflict, after all the heartache Dean and his loved ones had suffered at the monster’s hands.

 

With a strong flap of wings, Michael appeared before Sam on stage, right outside Bee’s circle.

 

“Have you figured it out?” he asked Sam face to face.

 

“Figured what out?”

 

“Oh come now, Sam,” Michael cooed with a head tilt. “Surely you must have some idea of what all the grace in that chest is for. Bright mind like yourself? Let’s hear your theory.”

 

“Actually,” Sam countered, “I was mostly wondering why you’d put that much of your power in one place, out in the open. Then I remembered, you’re kind of a drama queen. So that answers that question.”

 

Smiling coyly, Michael ambled towards the center and turned to face Bee. Sam nodded behind Michael’s back, to which Bee pretended to ignore and and started to shift closer to the middle aisle while keeping eye contact with the archangel.

 

“There’s something very different about you this time,” Michael detected. He took a step to the left to follow Bee’s movement. “Did you get a haircut?”

 

“How ‘bout you tell us what’s in the box, Mikey?”

 

“What, this trifle here?” he said while laying a hand on the open chest. “It’s going to be you.”

 

Bee blinked and glanced over at Charlie, who furrowed her brows and shrugged.

 

“I’ve been saving up. Haven’t you been wondering why I kept sparing the likes of all of you?” Michael motioned to all the visible humans in the auditorium. “Why I never came back to hunt you down?” He pointed at Bee specifically. Several angels glanced over at her. “It’s because you are among my chosen ones.”

 

“Yippee,” Charlie moaned sarcastically. “I better get in line before this spectacular deal ends.”

 

Michael took a another lazy step towards the harshly lit chest. “I hadn’t expected to have all of you show up at one time; this is very convenient.”

 

“What can we say? We’re team players like that,” said Charlie.

 

With one last stride, he was in the dead center of the stage, looking down at the ample supply of his grace swirling around like a cloud of pure light. “Now, I know some of you might have some qualms about swallowing this, but most people find I’m very… convincing.” Michael clenched his fists, doubling over every human and angel in excruciating pain. He raised the vial and began unscrewing the lid. “It’s an honor, really. You’re all strong, loyal -- the perfect army. Together, we will cleanse this world. As for the angels, I’m sure I can persuade you using more… invasive means. Who would like to go first?”

 

In a flap of curtain fabric, Dean tore through and grabbed the lighter sticking out of Sam’s pocket. Michael pivoted to face him, but Dean thumbed the flame to life and threw it onto a barely noticeable curve of oil between Sam and Michael. The circle sprouted into a wide circle of yellow and orange flame, and Michael’s grip loosened on all in the auditorium.

 

Dean reached behind the curtain, where Claire placed the lance back into his hands. He made a show of walking right up to the edge of the burning oil, where he slipped off the leather to reveal the head glistening in the warm ebbing light. Michael’s expression of indignation turned to that of alarm.

 

“Where did you get that?”

 

Smiling smugly, Dean took a step back and pointed the end directly at Michael. “I had a whole speech in mind, but I think I’ll save it for later. After all, this is gonna hurt like a mother, for a really long time.”

 

Dean held the lance high and jumped through the roaring flames, and Michael backed up as far as he could, eyes not leaving the end of the weapon. He swatted at the approaching head, but sustained small cuts on his hand that burned. He screamed as Dean inched closer.

 

“Too bad you’re not double jointed,” Dean derided. “Cause you’d be able to bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.” With a final lunge, he drove the lance deep into Michael’s heart, and the archangel’s knees buckled with a panged yell. He slumped onto his knees, but Dean pushed the end further in and twisted, causing Michael to look up at him with imploring eyes.

 

But Dean had no sympathy. Not after all of this. He ripped the lance out of the archangel, end dripping with blood Dean had never been so happy to see, and turned it on its head to whack him in the jaw. Amid the orange glow of holy fire, strings of black could be seen growing under his skin, achingly slow. As the blaze shrunk to a low blue trickle, Michael squinted as he coughed, curling up on the floor as the death he designed took its time.

 

When the fire died, Dean looked up to see an immensely relieved Cas. Dean’s face softened as Cas stepped over the ashy remnants of oil, and he didn’t stop him when Cas cradled his face in his palm.

 

“You did it,” he whispered.

 

Dean sighed and looked into those adoring blue eyes. “No, we did it.”

 

* * *

 

Making a spectacle out of Michael’s slow decay was the center of celebration in the bunker dungeon. The brick walls absorbed most of the hoots and hollers directed at the archangel chained to a chair in the center of the room. Around him, bunker residents drank from their red cups and occasionally jumped in beside him for a picture, bunny ears often included. Michael could no nothing but huff in discomfort as some yanked his head up so he’d face the camera, otherwise he humped over as his body slowly shut down. Thick black veins coursed right under his skin, thickest at his heart and narrowing all the way to his fingers and toes.

 

“I still can’t believe you quoted Savage Streets before you stabbed him,” Sam said to Dean as they approached the ice bucket for more beer.

 

“You kidding? Linda Blair’s a babe,” Dean defended, knocking off the bottle cap against the brick wall. He glanced over at Michael and laughed as someone hit him in the face with a bottle cap.

 

Across the room, Gabriel was making sure Charlie, Claire, and Bee knew his name, even though he had already made his rounds once. Claire approximated he had consumed roughly half the alcohol in the bunker, but no one showed signs of stopping him. Like her, everyone seemed more interested witnessing what shenanigans would transpire while he was drunk. 

 

“So issit Bee as in like, a honey bee, or…?” he slurred.

 

A smile broke across Bee’s face. “Yeah, actually.”

 

“Well,” he drawed out with, blinking away fuzzy spots while leaning on the wall. “When a bee is in your hand, what’s in your eye?”

 

“Oh, boy.”

 

“Beauty. Because beauty is in the eye of the bee-holder.” Gabriel put far too much effort in wiggling his brows and started falling forward.

 

“Wow,” Bee breathed at Charlie. After Gabriel regained his balance and trudged off to introduce himself to someone else, Bee glanced at the snack table right beside the door. Dean was pulling Cas out of the room, devious smirks on both of their faces.

 

“You know what I want to have?” she said to Charlie.

 

Charlie looked in the same direction she had. “What?”

 

Bee nodded to a flat white box on the table. “That chocolate pie.”

 

“Mm, same. I’ll get us each a slice.”

 

“Get an extra one. I want to smash it in Michael’s face.”

 

* * *

 

“Perfect ending to a perfect day,” Dean remarked as Cas tugged at his shirt. He allowed Cas to slip it off of him. Cas pressed him against the bedroom door, which thudded in its socket under their movements. Dean moaned shamelessly as Cas latched onto one of his nipples, not fearing being heard above the constant hubbub deep within the bunker. 

 

Dean held Cas’ head against him. He wanted more of it. More of Cas’ hair in his fingers. More of his capable arms holding him steady. More of his mouth, pulling sounds out of Dean he had never made with anyone else. More of everything.

 

Cas turned Dean around and wrapped his fingers around his shoulders, pushing him towards the bed. He tilted his head up for an open-mouthed kiss, which Dean returned eagerly as he held Cas’ head in his hands. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and the two collapsed onto the mattress ungracefully. Cas broke the kiss only to nudge his mouth below Dean’s ear and the hollow of his neck, which sent bolts right into Dean’s enlarging dick. They needed to be quick and Cas knew exactly what he was doing.

 

Dean’s bed squeaked as they frottaged against each other, raunchy grunts exchanged between them as their cocks grew increasingly hard. Cas straddled one of Dean’s thighs while unbuttoning and unzipping the man below him, pausing at his boxer briefs to run a firm hand over his erection while he rutted against him.

 

“Cas, you’re killing me,” Dean whined.

 

Cas pulled Dean’s pants and underwear to his knees but no further, legs still bent over the side of the bed, then stood up to undress himself. Dean drank in the sight before him. Cas’ chest muscles stretched when he lifted his shirt off, and in the name of all that was holy, those hip bones. They jutted into his pants sharply, and Dean’s mouth watered as he imagined his tongue trailing a slick line all the way down to where they led.

 

But they were already on a time crunch. Out or not, ignoring guests at a party was just rude. That thought, however, began melting away as Cas pressed Dean’s thighs together and shoved his dick in the tight space between them. Dean squeezed his legs together as best he could, the task becoming harder to concentrate on as Cas began jacking Dean off slowly with every thrust.

 

Dean’s tip beaded with precome, which Cas thumbed off and swirled around the head. The added smoothness felt amazing, and Dean hummed behind closed lips as the heat built within him. Cas continued matching his hand’s pace with that of his cock, and Dean hissed an intake of air as his balls began to harden.

 

Cas took notice and massaged them as he worked Dean over, tempo quickening as Dean clamped his eyes shut and threw his head back onto the mattress. “Cas,” he rasped as he moved his hips in time with his lover’s thrusts. He bit his lip as come shot into Cas’ fist, soaking his fingers and dripping onto Dean’s abdomen.

 

As soon as Dean stopped moving, Cas fluidly turned him onto his stomach and laid his cock in the crevice of Dean’s asscheeks. He slid in and out, climbing higher and higher, until he came with a huff onto Dean’s back. He held onto Dean’s waist as he caught his breath, feeling Dean’s smile against his own cheek as they laid intimately close.

 

“We gotta go,” Dean whispered, since Cas was already so close. “Sam’s gonna come looking for us.”

 

Cas raised himself, cooling come beginning to coagulate between them. “You did well today, Dean.”

 

Dean groaned as he pushed himself up and grabbed at his pants, still dangling at his knees. “Kickin’ ass and taking names, that’s us.”

 

“I mean it,” Cas insisted. “And not just today. It’s a long, hard fight, and I don’t believe it will ever really stop. But you deserve to enjoy this victory.”   
  
“Well, I definitely enjoyed the last few minutes of it!”

 

Cas rolled his eyes. Dean couldn’t be swayed when he was being ornery, so he dropped the subject. After making themselves presentable again, they noticed a chant-like cheer coming from far off. Dean double-checked his zipper and walked attentively towards the noise. The two slipped undetected back into the dungeon to find the bunker residents shouting “Die!” repeatedly as black goo dribbled out of Michael’s mouth and ears. They had made it just in time. Michael was dying.

 

His face was caked with chocolate and crust, eyes barely open. He weakly gagged up more tar as Dean joined in the chant. He and Cas shuffled their way to the front of the crowd, which had gathered just outside the devil’s trap. Stepping into the circle, Dean glared down at the choking, dying celestial being. How wacko was it that he was thoroughly enjoying this?

 

He stepped forward and clocked him in the nose. “That was for my family, you bastard.”

 

The crowd cheered, beer thrown in the air and loud jeers thrown into the circle.

 

Dean reared back and punched him again, in the jaw this time. Unlike their fight on the beach, Michael did not give a conceited smirk or return the blow. “And that one was for me. You’re never hurting anyone again.”

 

Michael’s whole body jolted as a clump of goo caught in his throat, and as his head fell back, eyes rolling to the back of his head. He sunk into the chair, muscles slackening and veins of black finally giving the fatal sweep. Dean stepped back, fist relaxing and lungs letting out an alleviated exhale. The body of Michael lay limp underneath chains and the deathly sickness, and the people around him roared.

 

He was gone. It was done. 

 

Dean stepped out of the circle, eyes now fixed on Cas. Inwardly, he was elated. The feeling didn’t translate immediately, and so he remained quiet as everyone around him clapped his shoulder and shouted their congratulations. Cas pursed his lips into a proud smile and nodded, and Dean’s unreadable face softened a little. It would hit him eventually, but Cas wasn’t going to rush him, and that comforted Dean.

 

After filling a red Solo cup with beer from the kegerator and sneaking into the corner to observe the party, Dean felt a bump against his arm. He turned to see Gabriel, slightly sobered up but still smiling like a goofball.

 

“Someone’s talking on angel radio,” Gabriel said above the crowd. 

 

Dean furrowed his brows and pouted. The angels had gone off to do their own celebrating up in the clouds. What did they still want with him?

 

“Said he wants his lance back.”

 

Dean cocked his head. “Our-world-Michael?” he clarified. “What’s he want with it?”

 

“I dunno. Big bro’s always been funny about his toys,” Gabriel shrugged. “Said he wants to pick it up alone. Heh. He’s always been funny about being in the same room as that ol’ piece’a junk.” Gabriel took a sip of beer and chuckled.

 

Dean swallowed and nodded. “Well you tell that asshat that I’m feeling generous. The lance is in the archives. Nobody else in the room to poke him with it.”

 

Gabriel stared absently into the distance for a moment while relaying the message. He grinned naughtily after raising his head back up. “You know who I’d like to poke me with their lance?”

 

“Oh god,” Dean mumbled as he hurried off. He might’ve just killed the son of a bitch that had been tailing him for months, and he might’ve just gotten off with Cas, but he was absolutely not in the mood for Gabriel’s shit. He glanced back to see Gabriel sticking his hand out to introduce himself to Sam, and Dean shook his head before downing the rest of his beer. He was turning around to find the trash can, when one of the bunker residents bumped into him and knocked the plastic cup out of his hand.

 

It bounced onto the floor with a distinct  _ plop _ .

 

Dean froze. He knew that sound. Following the timidly rolling cup with his eyes, he recalled the tiny communion cups falling to the floor shortly before dozens of church folk breathed their last and collapsed into lifeless heaps. The pop of plastic on carpet echoed against the similar sound of plastic on the hard floor, and he found himself trapped. He was inside a haunting memory. The world around him went on, and he could see the bunker and Michael’s dead body and the person beside him apologizing for bumping into him, but all he could hear was  _ plop _ . Over and over.

 

His heart hammered into his throat. His breath shallowed and he darted his eyes around, afraid that if he closed them, even for a blink, he would be swallowed once again by the flashback that Michael left him with. Calm down, he told himself. It’s just a fucking cup. Pull yourself together. You’re not in danger.

 

He looked at Cas on the other side of the room, who was conversing with Jack and Mary. He focused on him, narrowing his eyes and pushing all other thoughts out of his mind. The sound of cups grew louder, as if struggling for attention.

 

Fight like hell, he thought. He clenched his jaw and made Cas the focal point of the room, rooting himself in the reality of his presence instead of the images flooding his mind. Cas had pulled Dean out of this by reaching inward. Maybe Dean could pull himself out by reaching outward.

 

Just keep fighting, he muttered to himself. People brushed past him, temporarily blocking his view, but Dean’s attention never wavered as he ran through everything about  _ now  _ to ground himself. Cas smiled at something Jack said. He always did have such a beautiful smile. He had on that awful trench coat that Dean loved to take off. He recalled what Cas smelled like just minutes before. He could breathe a little easier now, and turned his attention to Jack.

 

Jack had come such a long way. Sure, he still had some learning to do, but who doesn’t? Dean looked at the soda he was holding. That was soda, right? It better as hell be. 

 

Dean exhaled through his nose. The plops had stopped. His heart wasn’t at a resting rate, but it was a far cry from what he had just experienced. Shaking his head a little, he refocused his attention to the crowd around him and looked down to see the cup still on the floor, kicked around a bit by oblivious passers-by. He reached down to grab it, and slid it quietly into the trash can.

 

A swell of gratification bloomed in his gut. Sure, Dean was still experiencing flashbacks, which kind of sucked, but now he knew he could claw his way out of them on his own. And that felt like another win. 

 

There was no magical penis in play here. Finding love is incredible, but it will not save you. Having a support system helps, but the battle is ours and ours alone. No healing cock, no kiss to solve all our problems; just the strength within ourselves and perhaps a person or two along the way, fictional or not, to remind us that life itself and the good it holds is worth fighting for.

 

Dean breathed deeply, chest heaving with the fulfillment of another small victory, and walked over to Cas. He intertwined their fingers, and Cas glanced up happily before continuing his conversation with Dean’s mom and Jack. He was going to be okay. He’s still fighting his way back, and feeling a little stronger every day.

* * *

 

(Listen to the song [here](https://youtu.be/BJ2En_1IfhI))

 

I'm tough, rough, ready and able

To pick myself up from under this table

Don't stick no sign on me, I got no label

I'm a little sick, unsure, unsound and unstable

But I'm fighting my way back

I'm busting out and I'm going in

I'm kicking up about the state I'm in

Looking to my future, not my past

I want to be a good boy but how long can it last

Fighting my way back

This kid is going to wreck and ruin

I'm not quite sure of what I'm doing

You see it happened all a little too soon

But it's all there in this here tune

Fighting my way back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEE'S CHARACTERIZATION: 
> 
> I almost don't want to say who I loosely based my OC on, because I *purposefully* refrained from giving a ton of physical descriptors. I wanted my readers to fill in those blanks on their own, because let's face it: When we think of human or human-ish!Impala, someone comes to mind. Maybe it's a TV star, maybe it's yourself, but we all have a vague idea. "Eyes of an old soul" and "messy hair" can apply to almost anyone. For this story, one person in particular kept appearing in my mind: Janis Joplin. Read up on her. Listen to her talk. She was an absolute legend. 
> 
> Bee quoted Janis a total of three times in this story: Ch 12 "Me and Bobby McGee" (one of her most famous songs); and ch 16 "You gotta get it while you can" and “If I hold back, I’m no good. I’d rather be good sometimes, than holding back all the time" are both famous quotes of hers. 
> 
> The first words Bee say to Dean, "My god, would it kill them to play some Metallica?" are a nod to the fanon nickname “Metallicar” given to Baby.
> 
> EASTER EGGS: 
> 
> Ch 1  
> The dragon's blue and green scales are a reference to Cas and Dean's eye colors
> 
> Ch 2  
> Bee: "Maybe once my engine dies I’ll come back as [a bee]" was foreshadowing  
> "Levee’s going to break" is a Led Zeppelin reference
> 
> Ch 3  
> Michael!Dean beating up Bee with a crowbar is a reference to season 2 episode 1 where Dean lets out his anger on the car
> 
> Ch 7  
> “Your time is gonna come" is a Led Zeppelin reference  
> "Mr. 'Dubs" = Winchester > W > "double u" > "dubs"
> 
> Ch 13  
> "Funky town" is an old Winchester code phrase for "I've got a gun to my head."
> 
> Ch 17  
> Title is "Ramble On" which contains lyrics referencing Lord of the Rings, which Dean is watching in this chapter
> 
> Well, I've said everything I intended to say, so I guess this is it! I hope you enjoyed it. This was a blast. I'm proud of myself for actually finishing something for once! As Chuck once said, "Writing is hard." But worth it. I'm off to start a new project. Hope to see your comments again soon! <3


End file.
